Chapter 3
Lucio
T he smell of sweat and damp canvas fills my nose as I pace the gym, my fist slamming into the punching bag with all the pent-up rage I can muster. My back is soaked; sweat’s streaming down in buckets, dripping off me like I’m in a damn rainstorm.
I can’t stop myself. I’m pissed off. And hell, I’ve got every right to be.
Emiliano—my big brother, my Capo—always trusts our younger brother, Matteo, with the important shit.
Every single time. Doesn’t matter that Matteo’s younger than me.
They’re all convinced he’s the “responsible” one.
As if I’m some loose cannon they can’t rely on.
Not to mention that practically everyone else knows everything before I do.
What is the fucking point in trying to force myself into their little circle?
“You keep punching the bag like that and you’ll dislocate your shoulder,” Dominico says, voice cutting through the air like a knife.
I ignore him and keep going, knuckles digging into the leather, heart pounding.
“When I talk to you, you fucking answer me, Lucio.” Dominico’s voice rises.
I feel the weight of his authority pressing down harder than usual now that he’s consigliere. Second-in-command. My cousin. The nerve.
I finally pause, turning to face him while wiping sweat from my face with the towel around my neck, each swipe a reminder of the frustration seething inside me. “Fuck you want, Dom?”
There may be an eight-year age difference between Dom and me, but I’m taller and look older.
I’m twenty-two years old, but he’s the one looking fresh out of college.
But that’s shadowed by the dark circles under his eyes.
The man has had it rough since the death of his wife, but that doesn’t mean he can come meddle in my fucking business.
“Watch your tone. I don’t have a problem with breaking your fucking jaw. I’m not your fucking brother to take disrespect.”
Rolling my eyes, I push past him and make my way to the changing rooms. His footsteps ring out as he follows me across the concrete floor. I push the changing room door open, ignoring him.
Fucking stalker.
The changing room is as grimy as the ring itself, reeking of old sweat, blood, and damp concrete.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked tile floor.
Rust stains trail down from busted pipes in the ceiling, and there’s a constant drip somewhere in the corner, echoing against the silence.
The benches are chipped and splintered, covered in faded graffiti from fighters who passed through long before me.
Lockers line one wall, most of them dented and scratched, doors barely hanging on their hinges.
I know they’re packed with taped-up gloves, worn-out shoes, and half-empty water bottles left to rot.
A cracked mirror hangs over a stained sink, the kind of mirror that distorts my face and makes me look like a stranger.
There’s a faint sour odor from an old roll of athletic tape left unclaimed, and my bag sits next to it, sprawled open with my wraps and towel peeking out.
This place has seen better days. Hell, maybe it never had any to begin with. But somehow, it feels like it’s waiting, holding its breath, just as ready for a fight as I am.
I yank the white tank top that’s plastered against my skin off, throwing it on the floor. Looking back, I find Dom standing there behind me, lifting a brow.
“What? Don’t tell me you wanna fucking watch me take a shower.”
He doesn’t look the least bit amused. “Listen here, asshole. Eli has asked me to tell you that if we can’t figure out who’s killing the girls of New York’s elite after they get involved with you, then we’ll have to send you off somewhere else.”
My lips pull back into a snarl, and I grab him by his collared shirt. “The fuck you mean, send me off somewhere else? Huh?”
“Get your fucking hands off me Lucio,” he growls. “If you hadn’t been so irresponsible, you wouldn’t be in this fucking position in the first place.”
“If my brothers had trusted me, I wouldn’t be in this fucking position,” I retort, turning back around and grabbing another towel before going into the shower.
“Trust is earned, Lucio. You haven’t shown you are worthy of your brother’s trust. Hell, you haven’t shown anyone you are worthy of their trust. All you do is fuck and act like an entitled brat. You have had this coming for a long fucking time.”
“I won’t be taking advice from a drunk who can’t stop drinking for a second to save his ass.”
Should I have shamed him for his drinking issue? No. Do I regret it? Fuck no.
The loud, unmistakable sound of the changing room doors banging against the wall singles that Dom has left.
I finish showering as quickly as I can, pulling on a new pair of sweats and a tank top, then look through the new messages I have.
I have a couple from Emiliano, another from Mara, and two from Ma.
Just as I’m about to shut my phone, my eyes land on a text from an unknown sender.
Unknown
I hope you’ve enjoyed my little presents.
The fuck? I shoot back a text.
Me
Who the fuck is this?
What presents?
Unknown
That would spoil the surprise, now, wouldn’t it? Enjoy!
Me:
Who is this?
Of course, I don’t get a response back.
Slamming my locker door shut, I run a hand through my hair, still damp from my shower, before heading out of the changing rooms. The metallic clang echoes around me, a reminder of the place I’m leaving behind for the night.
I take the stairs up to the garage, each step bouncing off the cold concrete walls.
As soon as I hit the top, I click the “open” button on my keys, hearing my car beep in response across the empty lot.
There she is: my black Huayra Roadster, gleaming under the dim garage lights. Pa gave me this car before he passed. It’s more than just a ride; it’s a piece of him I still have. Something solid. Something that reminds me of who I am and where I come from.
When I slide into the driver’s seat, the leather hugs me, familiar and grounding. I turn the key and the engine purrs to life, smooth and powerful, ready to take me away from everything for a while.
As I pull out into the streets, the city stretches out in front of me, lights glowing against the darkening sky.
The tall, classic buildings stand shoulder-to-shoulder with modern glass towers, each one lit up, reflecting a thousand little stories in their windows.
There’s an elegance to the old architecture, arches, and detailed facades bathed in warm, golden light, while the newer skyscrapers soar above them, slick and sharp-edged, their windows gleaming like polished obsidian.
A yellow taxi zips past me, and I notice the blurred flash of its headlights against the glossy black of the pavement.
The further I drive, the darker it gets, but the lights only get brighter.
Up ahead, the city skyline pierces the clouds, the spire of the Chrysler Building glinting in the dim twilight, standing like a silent guardian over the streets below.
Crowds bustle on the sidewalks, small silhouettes against the massive structures around them, while the rumble of traffic and the hum of neon signs fill the air.
The glow of headlights reflects off the wet asphalt as I weave through the lanes, my Roadster slicing through the city’s pulse, a shadow among shadows.
As I ease to a halt in front of the towering luxury building, the valet is already at my door, dressed crisply in a tailored suit that matches the sleek aesthetic of the lobby inside.
He greets me with a polite nod, reaching for the car door handle.
He’s young, maybe my age, and there’s an eagerness to his movements.
He clenches his fists, his smile barely contained as he slides behind the wheel and drives off toward the underground parking, the taillights flashing briefly before disappearing into the depths of the garage.
I turn toward the entrance, the heavy wooden doors reflecting the dim glow of the lobby lights inside.
Stepping in, I’m greeted by the warmth of the interior, an elegant contrast to the cool evening air outside.
The lobby is rich and atmospheric, with its dark wooden walls and intricate tile flooring that spreads out in geometric patterns beneath my feet.
The receptionist’s desk curves elegantly along one side of the room, draped in a dark, ornate fabric that complements the room’s sophisticated style.
Behind the desk, attendants stand poised.
They avoid looking in my direction, hands moving smoothly over computer keyboards.
I pause at the receptionist’s desk. One of the staff members looks up and gives me a tight smile. He’s an older man with fine lines and gray streaks in his blond hair.
“How can I help you, Mr. Folonari?”
“Has anyone been in my apartment?”
I watch his face; his eyes widen, surprise flashing in them, and his mouth opens slightly before he closes it.
“No, sir. The cleaners only go in three times a week, and only with the express consent of the patron. I assure you no one has gone in.”
My fingers tap on the counter, my tongue running over my bottom teeth before I sigh. “Right. I don’t have any mail, do I?”
He shakes his head. “No. If you’re expecting a package, we’ll have it up to you ASAP.”
“No…no, I’m not. Thank you,” I say before turning to face the lobby.
Golden lamps cast a soft amber light over the space, bouncing off polished wood panels and the antique-style mirrors adorning the walls.
A portrait of a woman in classic attire graces one side, her gaze timeless, almost regal as she watches over the room with a quietness.
The air is laced with a faint lingering scent—something woody and refined, like leather and aged whiskey.
I cross the lobby, each step echoing lightly until I reach the private elevator.
A quick scan of my key fob, and the doors slide open smoothly, welcoming me into a softly-lit interior lined with warm wood and brushed metal.
The elevator ascends quietly, the city lights slipping away as I rise above the street level.
In moments, the doors open directly into my apartment.
The space is breathtakingly open, framed by massive glass windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, offering an unobstructed view of the city skyline.
It’s a mix of industrial and refined with raw concrete pillars and polished wooden floors softened by deep leather furniture and warm lighting.
Eli helped me pick this out when we were apartment hunting for my birthday.
It was meant to be with Pa, but that…was no longer possible.
To one side, a two-story loft area is visible, filled with dark shelves lined with books and artwork, while a dining area and bar sit poised by the windows, ready for late-night drinks and views. The room feels alive, yet serene—a high-rise sanctuary above the bustling world below.
I drop my gym bag on the floor, and when I spot the cup from the Velvet Café, I know what that text is all about now. Next to it is a plain purple scarf. My hand wraps around the cup, and taking the top off, I sniff it.
Matcha latte with coconut milk. My usual.
Taking a sip out of the drink, I snatch the scarf up, inspecting it as if it’ll tell me who its owner is. Out of morbid curiosity, I bring it to my nose and inhale. The scent of caramel invades my nostrils, and from what I can gather, it seems like my little stalker may be of the opposite gender.
Interesting.
Putting down the Styrofoam cup, I make my way toward my kitchen before opening one of the drawers to look through for my favorite mug.
Mara and Ma went to a pottery place and got it inscribed.
I reach into the further part of the drawer, but instead of pulling out the mug, my fingers feel the smoothness of something other than the bottom of my drawer.
Clenching my jaw, I pull out the object and inspect it.
It’s a delicate necklace with a small pendant shaped like the sun, with pointed rays radiating outward.
In the center of it is a round purple gem; I can’t tell whether it’s a diamond or a different precious stone.
I inspect the thin gold chain before turning the pendant around.
My finger traces over the engraving: P.G .
Rummaging through the drawer, I find nothing else. I slam it shut, clenching the necklace in my palm. I guess Little Mouse dropped something while snooping. Snapping a picture of the necklace, I shoot a message to whoever has been stalking me.
Me
I guess you dropped something on your way out.