8. Elio De Luca
Chapter 8
Elio De Luca
Angelo pulls the car up to the VIP entrance of the private hospital, and Marco’s already out, scanning the perimeter like his life depends on it. It might.
“Stay sharp,” I mutter, more to myself than to Vinny, who hasn’t said a word since we left the house. The exhaustion is clawing at me now, tugging at the edges of my focus. It’s 2 a.m. I haven’t slept in days.
My mother and baby sister—Celeste—are staying in a private suite for the next week. Costs more than most people make in a year, but she deserves safety. Clean. Untouchable. So I made it happen.
The elevator ride is silent, save for the low mechanical hum grinding against my nerves. Vinny stares at the glowing numbers above the door. I can’t read him—never could—but the tension rolls off him in waves.
What the fuck is he thinking?
My hand drifts instinctively to the grip of my gun, resting at my hip.
The elevator doors slide open to a quiet, dimly lit corridor. Two of my men—Alessandro and his brother Dante—stand like statues outside the suite, hands behind their backs, eyes scanning everything.
“Everything quiet?” I ask Alessandro.
“Sì, Capo. No problems.”
“Good.”
Gio stands just inside the suite’s double doors, arms crossed, face a thundercloud. I’d forgotten he was on guard tonight—he must’ve just come off shift from the house. Exhausted, but still sharp. And judging by the way his jaw tightens when he sees Vinny, no one told him my brother would be tagging along.
His eyes flash with open hostility.
“Elio,” he says, voice low, tight. “What the hell is he doing here? I thought I just got rid of him.” He jerks his head toward Vinny. “He doesn’t belong here. Not near Maria. Not near the baby.”
Gio’s jaw tightens. He looks from me to Vinny, his eyes filled with disgust.
“You’re making a mistake, Elio. Some things can’t be forgiven.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But right now, I need him. And what I need, I get.”
Maria’s voice, soft but firm, floats from inside the suite. “Gio, Elio, enough. Come on in.”
Gio hesitates for a moment. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he steps aside. “Behave,” he spits, stepping into the suite.
“Oh, relax, meathead. I’m not here to kill anyone,” Vinny says, shaking his head and putting his arms up in mock surrender.
I elbow Vinny’s side, knocking him slightly off balance. “Don’t talk to Gio like that.”
“Message received,” he says, catching his breath.
I clap Vinny’s shoulder and nudge my head forward to keep walking.
The suite is opulent. Soft lighting, muted colors, expensive furniture, and the faint, sweet smell of scented napkins. Maria sits in a plush armchair near the window, her face pale but relaxed. Celeste is cradled in her arms, a tiny bundle of swaddled blankets.
“Elio,” Maria says. “Thank you. For everything. This suite, the guards–”
I kneel beside her. Her skin is thin and papery. My eyes turn to the rosy bundle sleeping in her arms. “Anything for her.”
Her gaze shifts to Vinny, standing awkwardly near the doorway.
“Vinny,” Maria whispers. “Come closer.”
Of course. Vinny’s always had a way of winning our Mother’s attention. The way she lights up when he walks into a room, the way she never seems to notice how much he gets away with. Old jealousy stirs inside me, sharp and stinging like a wasp, but I keep it in check—let it simmer quietly beneath the surface.
“Me?” He stutters.
Maria nods in his direction, “Yes, silly.”
My brother hesitates, his gaze flicking nervously between our mother and me. His fingers twitch at his sides, his breathing uneven. I’ve seen him face down a gun without flinching, laugh with blood on his hands—but now? Now, he looks like a man bracing for a bullet he’ll never see coming.
He shuffles forward, his steps slow and hesitant, like a man walking into a minefield. He stops a few feet away from Maria, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
“Mama…” Vinny begins, his voice thick, barely there. “I…”
Maria cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “I know, Vinny. I know what you want to say. Let’s not do this now, okay? Just… look at her.” She turns Celeste gently in her arms, revealing her tiny, sleeping face.
Vinny stares, eyes wide and unblinking. A muscle ticks in his jaw. I can see it—the way the past crashes into him. Alana. Papa. The life that cracked and never healed.
“Can I… can I hold her?” he croaks.
My jaw tightens. “Be fucking careful. If you hurt her…” The threat coils in the air like smoke—sharp, heavy, deadly.
Maria doesn’t flinch. She keeps her eyes on Vinny, voice soft but firm. “Of course, Tesoro. Come here.”
Vinny takes a step forward, then another. He kneels beside Maria, his movements stiff and awkward. She carefully places Celeste in his arms, guiding his hands to support her tiny body.
For a moment, he stares at her, his eyes glistening.
Is that a fucking tear?
My chest tightens. Vinny doesn’t cry. Not when he shot my Papa dead. Not when Uncle Rocco, who was supposed to babysit us while our parents were out of town, came home drunk and mean, throwing bottles and threats like they were nothing.
The last time I saw him this close to breaking, we were kids, hiding from Rocco in the closet upstairs, his hand clamped over my mouth to keep me quiet.
“Don’t let him hear you,” he’d whispered. “He’ll sober up by morning.”
He swore that night he’d never let anyone see him weak again. And he never did.
Until now.
The hardened shell around him seems to crack, revealing a glimpse of the boy he once was.
“She reminds me of—” Vinny begins, his voice catching in his throat.
“Alana,” I finish for him, the name a shard of glass in my throat. My sister. Our sister. The one we lost. I choke down the emotion, turning away. Don’t let them see you cry.
You are the Shadow King. You do not weep.
Vinny cradles Celeste; his movements are surprisingly gentle. “She looks strong. Even this small. What’s her name?”
“Celeste,” Maria replies, her hand resting on Vinny’s arm.
Vinny nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the baby’s face. “It’s perfect, Mama. She is divine. But… she also has fire. Fire in her eyes.”
I turn back, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Fuoco—Fuochi. Her middle name can be Fuchi.”
”Fire, in Italian,” Maria says and nods.
Vinny looks up at me. “That’s fucking beautiful, brother.”
Silence settles over the room, a fragile truce in a war that never truly ended.
We stay for a few hours, watching Celeste sleep and listening to Maria talk about gardening and baby clothes. It’s a strange, surreal moment.
Finally, it’s time to leave.
The exhaustion is a physical ache now, a heavy weight dragging me down. I kiss Celeste goodbye, promising to return soon. I nod to Vinny. “Let’s go, brother.”
The drive back to the mansion is slow. Angelo is driving, and Vinny stares out the window, his expression unreadable. I rub my eyes, fighting off the exhaustion clawing at me. It’s 4 AM. I need sleep. I need to think. But fatigue weighs me down, blurring the edges of my awareness.
Through the lit streets, Maria’s image pops into my mind—handing Celeste over to Vinny like some transaction. How the hell am I supposed to protect her if my own mother is throwing her to the wolves? On the other hand Vinny behaved. I don’t know what to think anymore.
I blink, sluggish, my body aching from too many sleepless nights and too many goddamn problems.
Slumping against the door, I close my eyes, surrendering to the moment. I catch Vinny shifting beside me out of the corner of my hazy awareness. I don’t care—until I do.
Tires screech suddenly, jerking the car sideways. My body lurches with the motion, and Angelo’s voice cuts through the air like a whip.
“Che cazzo fai?!” he shouts at another driver, his curse muffled by the glass but still loud enough to rattle my already frayed nerves.
My arms twitch in a weak, instinctive attempt at self-defense—but Vinny’s hand is already there. He braces me, one palm gripping the window frame, the other catching my shoulder with a silent strength. He steadies me without hesitation, as if it’s second nature.
His jaw is tight, eyes locked on the passing blur of night outside. He doesn’t look at me.
“What are you doing?” I mutter, narrowing my eyes, searching his face for the crack in his mask.
He shrugs, but it’s hollow—like the gesture costs him. “Nothing.”
That’s not Vinny. Not the version of him that lived to provoke, to fight, to watch me stumble.
And that’s why it hits different. Because this Vinny… the one who still protects me on reflex—that’s the one who remembers. That’s the one who scares me. Or maybe—just maybe—he confuses the hell out of me.
I lean back more confused and exhausted than ever. My muscles loosen, and my head falls back against the seat. The small, unexpected gesture gnaws at something deep inside me. It should bring comfort. It doesn’t.
The world outside fades, swallowed by the low hum of the engine as we head home.
Streetlights blur into streaks. My body relaxes, but my mind won’t.
As the darkness of sleep pulls me under, one thought clings like a splinter beneath my skin:
What the hell was that?
* * *
As we approach the mansion, I notice the outside lights are off, unusual for this time of night. The gates, which are always secured, stand slightly ajar. The air is thick with a silence that feels wrong.
My senses sharpen. Adrenaline courses through my veins, replacing my wariness with a cold, focused alertness.
“Stop the car,” I bark at Angelo.
He slams on the brakes, the tires screeching against the asphalt. Marco is out of the car before it even comes to a complete stop, his gun drawn. I follow close behind, my hand gripping the gun at my hip.
“Fuck!” I hiss under my breath, my eyes scanning the scene, taking in every detail.
The mansion has been breached.
I gesture for Vinny to stay in the car. “Stay here with Angelo. Don’t move.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods.
Marco and I move forward, cautiously approaching the gates. I follow close behind, my heart pounding in my chest.
As we reach the gates, I see them. Two of my men slumped against the stone pillars, their eyes vacant, their bodies lifeless.
“Shit,” Marco whispers.
I push the gates open, stepping onto the mansion’s grounds. I smell blood and gunpowder. The scene is chaotic.
The lawn is littered with more bodies, some of my men, others… others I don’t recognize. The house itself is dark and silent against the night sky.
I raise my gun, my finger tightening on the trigger. “Inside,” I command. “Now.”
Marco moves forward, flanking me as we approach the house. We move quickly, silently.
Where is she? Nica, please. Be alive. Be okay.
My chest is tight. My mind screams images of her bleeding, broken, gone. I shove them down, but they claw back up.
We reach the front door. I pause. One breath. Two.
This is it.
I kick the door open. It crashes inward, and I charge through, gun raised, ready to kill.
The foyer greets me like a warzone. Blood stains the Persian rug. The chandelier dangles like a broken limb. The air is thick with iron and death.
Nica.
Where the fuck is she?
The silence is deafening, broken only by the crunch of our boots on shattered glass. My eyes sweep every corner, every shadow.
If she’s dead—if they’ve touched her—I will burn the whole fucking city to the ground.
“Clear!” Marco shouts, voice sharp, clipped.
But my blood’s already howling. And I won’t stop until I find her.
“Keep going,” I murmur.
Marco moves to the left, and I move to the right. The house feels… empty.
Eerily, disturbingly empty.
We move through the mansion room by room, clearing each space. The living room, the dining room, the library – all untouched. The only signs of violence are the two dead guards that Gio recently hired slumped against the walls, their eyes wide with a look of frozen terror.
“They were caught completely off guard,” Marco mutters, examining one of the bodies. “Professional work.”
Upstairs, the bedrooms are silent, undisturbed… all except for one. Her room. Our room. Every cell in my body screams her name.
My pulse skyrockets. Each step I take is heavier than the last, the floorboards mocking me with their slow creaks.
This better be a dream. A nightmare.
I reach the door, the handle cold beneath my trembling fingers. It’s slightly ajar. A sliver of darkness teases me.
“Nica?”
I shove it open, the hinges protesting with a drawn-out whine. My heart hammers against my ribs, threatening to break free.
“Nica!” I call out.
The room… is perfect. Immaculate. As if she’s stepped out for a moment. Her favorite perfume, a blend of vanilla and something sweeter, clings to the air. The bed is messy, but not too much. Like she’s just gone out for a moment, her jewelry box sits open on the dresser, still gleaming.
Too perfect. The air is heavy with a stillness that screams something is wrong.
“Nica!” I shout again, louder this time, my voice cracking. I scan the room, my eyes darting from object to object, searching for any sign, any clue.
The ensuite bathroom is empty, too. In the walk-in closet, her clothes are neatly arranged, and her shoes are lined up in perfect rows.
A cold dread washes over me. This isn’t a casual disappearance. This is… deliberate. A violation.
I run my hand along the silk sheets. Where are you?
A sudden movement catches my eye. I whirl around, my gun raised.
Nothing.
But then I see it. A single playing card is lying face down on the floor near the doorway. The Queen of Spades. A black card. The death card.
My breath catches in my throat as I pick it up. This isn’t random. This is a message.
A few words are scrambled on the card: Galli in, Galli out.
What does that mean?
“Fuck,” I breathe, the word a strangled gasp. This is bad. This is very bad. I fold the card and slide it into my jacket pocket.
The rest of the house is a blur. I practically fall down the stairs, my legs numb. I need to find her. I need to kill whoever did this.
Downstairs, Marco stands frozen, his eyes fixed on the figure slowly crawling out of the pantry.
“Get up!” he barks, his gun trained on the shifting shadows.
I tense for a second, every muscle locked, ready to fire—until the figure comes into focus.
Mrs. Gambini.
She stumbles into the light like a ghost, her face ashen, hands clasped tightly in front of her as if trying to keep her insides from spilling out. Her eyes are wild, full of terror. She must’ve been hiding in the pantry—curled up like prey.
“They took her…” she whispers, her voice ragged.
“Who?” I bark, my voice barely human.
“Victoria,” she sobs, shaking uncontrollably. “They took her... Poor child. I’m so sorry, Elio. Forgive me…”
The ground slips out from under me.
No. No, no, no.
My vision tunnels, the walls closing in. My heart is a war drum, and my ears ring with a roar of blood and rage. A red haze paints everything in front of me.
“Not. Your. Fault,” I grind out, forcing my voice through clenched teeth as I scan her for injuries. Nothing. She’s fine. Physically.
I stumble backward. My legs buckle. I drop to my knees, fists hitting the marble with a crack that echoes through the carnage.
The pain means nothing. Not when she’s gone.
There’s only the agony. And the fire it ignites.
“Fuck!” I scream, the sound ripping through the silence of the night. “Not her!!!”
My fist slams into the floor—once, twice, again—each blow a savage attempt to exorcise the storm tearing through me. The marble cracks beneath my knuckles. Blood spills from my split skin, painting the floor red. I barely feel it.
In the corner of my vision, Angelo and Vinny stand frozen. Then Vinny steps forward and places a tentative hand on my shoulder.
I swat it off like it burns.
“They’ll pay,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “They’ll fucking pay.”
I glare up at him, my eyes wild. “They took her, Vinny,” I rasp. “They fucking took her.”
He doesn’t flinch. His hand returns to my shoulder, stronger this time. “Fuckers.”
The darkness coils tighter inside me, alive and snarling. They made a fatal mistake. They took the one thing that mattered. The one thing that made me human.
And now?
Now they’ll burn.
I rise, slow and steady, wiping blood from my fist. My eyes are cold—hollow.
“Find them,” I growl. “I want names. Faces. Locations. Everything.”
Vinny nods.
Angelo and Marco step forward, stone-faced. “What are your orders, Boss?”
I inhale through my nose, grounding myself, leashing the rage—barely.
“Marco, lock this place down. Every inch, every room, every shadow. If they left a crumb, I want it found. Angelo, hit every contact we’ve got. I’ll call Gio and the others. Spread the word—we’re hunting. Nica’s missing. The bastards who took her? I want them found before the sun fucking rises.”
They both nod, no hesitation.
Then I turn to Vinny. My gaze sharpens.
“I need you,” I say. “There’s a company—Broad Corporation. Someone there threatened her. Shook her up bad. I want to know who’s behind it. Who funds it. Who owns it. I want it stripped bare. Angelo’s going with you—just in case you get any ideas.”
Vinny meets my gaze. Doesn’t blink. “Consider it done. And not the screwing-you-over part.”
For the first time in years, I believe him.
There’s something in his eyes—something jagged and real. A shared fury. A common enemy.
We will find Nica.
And when we do, the ones who took her will understand what it means to awaken the wrath of the Shadow King.