The Shadow King’s Brother (The De Luca Empire #4)

1. Victoria Galli

Chapter 1

Victoria Galli

They say a clean office is a sign of a clean mind.

Mine, then, is a disaster area.

The jasmine scent from the diffuser battles the dusty smell of neglected paperwork. These chandeliers, though... the soft, golden light almost tricks me into believing I’m in control.

Almost.

The numbers on the screen blur—another quarter, another round of headaches. I was never meant for this, not really. My plan had been different. A detective’s office, a glass door with my name etched across it. But plans shift. Dreams get shelved. And now, I do the finances for the De Luca empire, wading through spreadsheets instead of crime scenes. Numbers were always easy for me—safe, predictable—but I’m no expert. I keep waiting for someone to notice, to point out that I don’t belong here.

A rogue thought, unwelcome as always, claws its way in: Almost a year. Almost a year since the world tilted on its axis, since everything fractured.

The financial report in my hand feels heavy.

A flash of red—Naomi’s lipstick, too bright on her lifeless face—cuts through the spreadsheets. Then, the cold creeps in. Dante’s basement. The gunfire. The way it rang in my ears for days. I blink hard, shove it back down, and focus on the numbers. Numbers are safer than faces. Cleaner than blood.

Almost a year since Jackson slammed his badge on the precinct desk, his face a mask of grief I never want to see again. A year since he found his wife Carol slumped over the bathroom counter, a bottle of pills and a hastily scribbled note beside her.

I still see Jackson’s kids in my mind’s eye at the funeral—in black, their tiny bodies swallowed by oversized suits, faces pale and drawn, like little ghosts trying to hold it together in a world turned upside down.

Soon, we’ll mark a year of pain.But we’re alive.

I try to push the memories away because they hurt too damn much. Most days, I succeed. But today? Not so much. The details resurface like a horror slideshow, playing on a loop in the back of my mind.

I look around. Elio, being Elio, didn’t just give me an office—he tried to give me a sanctuary in his building. It almost makes me feel like I’s supposed to be here.

But even surrounded by lush plants and soundproofed windows, the past is a stalker.

For the last year, we’ve been digging through the De Luca empire’s internal corruption—the mafia ties, the illegal businesses—weeding out the rot my father and Elio’s father let fester. It’s tedious and exhausting. And beneath the surface, the old corruption clings tight, like a stubborn shadow.

The old world, when my father was still alive.

Another memory flares like lightning.

My mother, at Father’s funeral. Her hand rested on my shoulder. She looked like a CEO closing a deal gone wrong—composed, controlled, but with something sharp in her eye. I’d been crying, the kind of sobbing that hollows you out, that makes your chest ache.

Her voice cut through it all, barely above a whisper: “It’s done, Vickie.”

Those words weren’t for me. She was convincing herself. It was over. Move on. And I was supposed to fall in line.

She gave me a long hug goodbye. I didn’t want to let go, but I did. And we haven’t really spoken since.

A sharp, precise knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. Before I can respond, Fiona, my personal assistant, steps in. She’s the epitome of control and efficiency, never a hair out of place. Her black suit, tight ponytail, and sleek glasses form her signature work uniform. She’s about thirty, with a detached demeanor that somehow manages to be both intimidating and reassuring.

I watch as she walks in. Every step is calculated, like she’s not just avoiding messes but making sure I don’t create any either.

She places a tablet on my desk, the screen already displaying last year’s report, and looks at me for a moment.

“The report you requested, Miss Galli,” she says, her voice as crisp as the pleats in her skirt. Her eyes hover over me. “Want coffee? You look... off.”

Off. Right. That’s one word for it.

“Not right now, I already had one, thank you. And it’s Victoria, please.”

A flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. She nods, barely perceptible.

God, I wish I knew what was behind those glasses.

“Actually,” I say, suddenly impulsive, “bring the coffee anyway. And the current expenditures. I might as well dive headfirst into the abyss.”

Why fight the caffeine rush when it’s so obvious?

She pauses, a question in her eyes, but says nothing. She just nods and disappears.

I sigh, leaning back in my oversized leather chair. It’s comfortable but makes me feel like I’m sinking, and I hate feeling small. Mental note: I need a new chair—something that at least gives the illusion of control.

Sometimes, I wonder if she sees anything in me beyond being Elio’s girlfriend or Mattheo’s daughter. I don’t know why I care… Maybe it’s my stupid need for validation.

Does she notice the cracks beneath the surface? She probably does—and I’m sure she judges me for it. A little thrill of irritation runs through me. I can’t suppress it.

I may need a new PA.

I reach out, picking up the tablet she left, the one with the digital reports.

I tap the screen and open the summary of last year’s De Luca expenditures. The numbers flow by, mostly familiar—the usual expenses of a jewelry empire: shipping, salaries, taxes, rent, and purchases.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

I blink, rubbing my eyes as I scroll, the monotony of the report settling in. It’s all so… dry. The same old categories, the same figures that build this empire’s foundation. A few office supplies here, some large-scale shipments there, vendor invoices... the kind of expenses I’ve learned to tune out.

This part of the business, although I’m decent at it, is all Elio’s Uncle Tuvio’s domain. But the last year, with everything that’s happened, he taught me the ropes—mostly out of necessity.

We couldn’t trust anyone else. I don’t mind it as much anymore; sometimes, I find it oddly satisfying. But today… I’m just tired. My eyes feel heavy, the numbers blur together, and I can barely keep my focus.

But then, I see something.

A series of payments, all flagged as ‘Office Supplies,’ and they’re substantial. Not a few pens and paperclips – we’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars a month, routed to a company called ‘Mighty Machines.’ The invoices are vague, with just a few words, such as routine repairs , and the PO numbers are all out of sequence.

My pulse picks up as I stop scrolling, my fingers lingering on the screen, suddenly more awake than I was a moment ago.

“‘Mighty Machines’?” I mutter to myself.

I minimize the report and do a quick search online. ‘Mighty Machines Inc.’ pops up—a company that sells and services heavy construction equipment. Bulldozers, excavators, cranes… not exactly the kind of stuff you need for a jewelry business.

My brow furrows, a growing unease settling in my stomach. I click on the ‘About Us’ section, my brow wrinkling more. The website looks cheap and amateurish. It has stock photos of grinning employees, a generic mission statement, and a physical address that, when I look it up, looks like a run-down warehouse district on the outskirts of town.

“What the hell is this?” I mutter to myself. “The company looks—fake.”

Then, I type ‘Mighty Machines Inc.’ and ‘De Luca Enterprises’ into the search engine, my fingers flying across the keyboard, and the results come back mostly useless. Nothing except some business listings and one forum page: ‘local construction workers and small business owners complain about poor work practices.’

I scroll on. A news article from two years ago about the sale of Mighty Machines mentions a change in ownership. The previous owner, a local mechanic, had sold it for a surprisingly high price, claiming he wanted to retire early. No names of the new owners are mentioned in the article.

My gut clenches.

But one thing stands out—the company name was later changed to B.C., which is apparently a larger corporation… It’s like the company got swallowed.

Disappeared.

My pulse picks up as I stop scrolling, my fingers lingering on the screen, suddenly more awake than I was a moment ago.

“What the hell is B.C.?” I whisper.

I minimize the report and open the company’s internal search engine, entering “B.C.,” running through the archived transaction logs from the past two years.

Nothing.

My brow furrows, a growing unease settling in my stomach. I try Google, typing in ‘B.C.’, but the results are useless.

I’m not sure why, but I feel a sense of urgency. Like something is slipping away, right before my eyes. It’s like this ‘BC’ has appeared from nowhere, like a ghost in our system. I pick up the phone and dial Pearson, our on-site accountant.

“Pearson, it’s Victoria. Do you know anything about an account, a company or a designation called ‘B.C.’?”

A pause on the other end, then his dry voice replies, “No, Miss Galli, I don’t recognize that.”

“Can you look it up?”

“I will review the books and see what I can find.”

“Please do that and get back to me immediately,” I say, hanging up the phone.

For a second, I consider calling Uncle Tuvio, but the thought of getting him involved right now makes my stomach clench. Maybe I can figure it out on my own, just this one time. Maybe if I work hard, I can prove that I don’t need to be taken care of.

There’s a knock on the door again. It’s probably Fiona with the new report and coffee—though that was too fast. And the knock... it’s almost frantic.

Before I can even process the interruption, Fiona bursts through the door, her composure barely intact. She closes the door behind her, and lets out a puff of air. “Miss Galli, I’m so sorry, but security... the gentleman... he... it’s that gastly man again—” She stumbles over her words, unable to finish.

“He’s pushing himself in this time,” she continues, her voice tight with frustration. “Security is on him, but he has to stop coming here!” Her lips form a thin line, disapproval written clearly on her face.

I know who it is.

I wonder silently if Fiona has something like a ‘people I would never deal with’ list, and my friend is now at the top, with a bold red highlight.

I sigh. “It’s okay, Fiona, you can let him in.”

It feels like my life is a constant cycle of putting out fires and cleaning up other people’s messes, and it’s tiring.

The door bursts open, not with a knock or a polite entrance, but a full-on, unhinged shove. Jackson barrels into the room, and the scent of stale beer and unwashed clothes hits me like a wall. His eyes are bloodshot, the whites veined and red, and his hair is a tangled mess. He looks like he hasn’t seen sleep in days, his skin pale and clammy. I wrinkle my nose, trying not to breathe too deeply.

“Jackson—hun—,” I start, my voice is strained.

“I found a clue!” he slurs. His whole body is trembling.

“Jackson, I’m trying to look over some stuff. Can we talk later? Or tomorrow?” I rub my temples, the beginnings of a headache thrumming behind my eyes.

“I know, I know, I’ve been off lately, but this time, Vicks, I got it. I really do. Just listen to me!”

He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on my desk, sinking his teeth into it. He paces back and forth, bits of apple left behind like breadcrumbs, his energy almost frantic—like he’s trying to outrun his thoughts or tear through his skin.

I nod silently to Fiona, a sign that she can leave the room. The roll of her eyes is neither subtle nor friendly. She scurries out.

“Jackson, everything’s been off lately. Maybe we should meet and talk it over with Elio. Do you want to come to dinner tonight? Bring the kids? Mrs. Gambini would love to see them,” I say.

“No, Vickie,” he pleads, pushing the sweaty strands of hair from his forehead. “Please, listen to me.”

This whole situation feels like a never-ending cycle, a broken record that keeps playing the same sad song.

It’s the third time he’s shown up with a ‘clue’ for me this week, and it’s only Tuesday. Fiona should be used to it by now.

I try to change the subject.

“Jackson,” I say, reaching for his hand, but his eyes are flitting around the room, unable to focus on my face. “Did you go to that hearing? About getting back from leave? Back on the force?”

He stops pacing, his shoulders slumping as if all the energy has been sucked out of him. He looks down at the apple in his hand, the half-eaten core. Then, he drops the apple, the bite falling onto my desk, and the rest of it rolling onto the floor with a soft thud.

“I— I forgot— was that today?”

I nod slowly, my heart sinking. “It was…”

I can’t believe he missed it.

They won’t take him back looking like this, not in this state. He was a good cop, one of the best, but he’s lost, drowning.

“Shit, I forgot, I’m so fucking sorry, but this is more important, it can’t wait, Vickie. Please.” he hisses.

“You need to get yourself together, it’s not just for yourself, for the kids— think about Carol… about—” I reach out to him.

Instead of letting me, he swats my hand away like an annoying fly. “Just look into it. Promise me that,” his eyes are dark like he’s begging for his very life.

“Fine, I promise…” I say, the words escaping my lips before I can stop them. “What have you got for me?”

He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolding it slowly, his fingers trembling. “Found this at the old safe house. It’s a list of names, some addresses... but look at the bottom.” He points to a single line written in smudged ink. “It says B.C. at the bottom. I tried to look into what it is, but I couldn’t get anything concrete from my sources.” He meets my eyes, his expression serious.

My heart skips a beat.

B.C.? Could it be the same one?

I don’t let my surprise show, but it takes everything in me not to jump out of my chair. I squeeze his hand, trying to steady myself, and bite my lip to hold back the surge of tension. “B.C.?” I ask. “You’re sure?”

Jackson’s eyes are intense. “Yeah, pretty sure. You got something on them?”

I force a breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know... but you need to calm down. You’re running off like a rocket again. This isn’t the way.” I pause, not wanting to fuel his spiraling. “Let me look into it first. Then we’ll talk.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “I knew it! A clue!”

“Jackson,” I reply, trying to stay composed. “It might be nothing.”

“I know it’s something. I know it!” His voice is sharp. “I’ll finally find out who killed Carol and make them pay—”

“Hey,” I get up and step closer to him, grabbing his shoulder gently. “Carol took her own life. We went over this. The police investigated, you know that.”

“Yeah, well, not enough! They didn’t do their fucking job,” he bites, pacing now, his energy turning frantic.

“Please, just calm down—”

But before I can get the rest out, he’s gone, leaving the door to swing shut with a soft click, and the room still humming with his energy.

I glance at the mess Jackson left behind: the half-eaten apple on my desk, bits of it scattered across the floor. I rub the chi-rho tattoo on my wrist, a quiet attempt to ground myself before I turn back to my computer.

Could this B.C. thing actually be something? Or am I just getting paranoid, looking for connections that aren’t there?

I search ‘B.C.’ again, but this time I add more keywords ‘company’, ‘business’, ‘corporation’. The results are underwhelming.

There is a mention of a company called ‘Broad Corporations,’ but their website is vague as well, just like Mighty Machines— a financial company, that could mean anything. It’s hard to tell.

It’s probably nothing, but I jolt it down anyway. The company is located downtown in a nondescript building, and it recently changed owner. The details are thin—almost suspiciously so.

Change in ownership … Wait, didn’t Mighty Machines change owners, and that’s why the name switched to B.C.?

I lean back in my chair, my mind drifting to all the ‘clues’ from last year. Each one turned out to be a dead end, just like this one probably will. The investigation into Carol’s suicide, for example. We found out she’d gone off her depression meds and had spiraled down a dark hole. Jackson blames himself for not noticing sooner, and I get it—he can’t let it go. Now he’s convinced she was murdered.

Then there’s Vinny De Luca. He’s still out there. Free . I shiver at the thought of him.

The knife at my entrance, his hands all over my body.

What would’ve happened if Elio hadn’t distracted him? I still see his cold, dark eyes when I close mine at night. Vinny is like a splinter under my skin, the kind you can’t get rid of.

Him being out there, still, after all this time—it means we’re not truly safe.

It’s like the city is calling his name, a warning that he’s not done with us yet. Has he fled the country? Is he still watching us?

My phone buzzes on the desk, lighting up with Elio’s name. I don’t need to pick it up to know something’s off.

His voice is sharp, frantic. “Nica!”

“Elio, what’s going on?” My body’s already moving, instinctively reaching for the gun under the desk, but his words hit me before I can act.

“It’s happening. Now. Get to the hospital. Now.”

The line clicks off before I can reply.

A sharp breath catches in my throat. It’s really happening. The thing we’ve all been waiting for. The thing that might finally bring some light into this darkness.

Maria, Elio’s mother, is about to give birth. Fifty years old. It’s risky—so much could go wrong. But she’s bringing life into the world, a new brother or sister for Elio.

And it’s happening now. It’s real.

I feel a flicker of nerves. There’s a new life coming into this mess. No way.

I strap the gun to my back, hiding it under my blouse as I throw on a blazer. It’s summer, and the air is thick and humid, but I barely notice. It’s never too warm to be armed. My heart’s beating faster than it should be.