Chapter 2
"There's a meeting with Mr.Mehta , and you know he's from India and I can not attend it so you have to go there " my grandfather said, while sipping his wine.
India, i have never been there but heard a lot of things. "India? You sure you wanna send me there? " I asked curiously .
"Sì sì " ( yes, yes) my grandfather said as he set the empty glass down on the table. He's the one who has been raising me since my parents die or were killed.
And from then , I was trained to be heartless so that I can take revenge on them , and as for my grandfather? He's quite old now but he still have the Mafia aura which even I'm scared of.
"Okay" i replied calmly as my right hand Man nodded at me and left . India... I'm coming.
The next morning, i woke up by the sound of alarm, it's time to go to India. I rose up from my bed and make my way towards the bathroom, the warm water helping me to relax my body.
After putting my black suit on, I make my way to my private jet .
The flight was long, but I spent most of it going over the details of the meeting, flipping through files, and reading everything I could find on Mr. Mehta.
A powerful man in the Indian business world, but still nothing compared to our empire.
Still, I had to tread carefully India wasn’t my territory, and respect was a two-edged sword.
As we descended, I looked out of the window Mumbai. Loud, chaotic, alive. It was nothing like the quiet hills of Tuscany or the cold elegance of Milan. And yet, something about the disarray intrigued me. A land of color, noise, and hidden power.
As I stepped off the jet, the humid air slapped me in the face. My guards flanked me instantly, their presence drawing glances from people nearby. We didn’t blend in our suits, our silence, our watchful eyes. We weren’t supposed to.
“Car is ready, Signore,” one of the guards said, opening the door to the black BMW waiting on the tarmac.
I slid in, loosening my tie. “Take me to the hotel first. I need a shower before I meet this Mr. Agarwal.”
The hotel was luxury, of course. The kind of place where even the floor smelled like imported marble and politics. I walked in like I owned it because in a way, I did. Money made you royalty, and fear kept you in power.
Once inside the suite, I stripped off my jacket and poured myself a glass of whiskey. The sound of ice hitting glass was oddly comforting.
I walked over to the floor-length windows and looked out at the city. Busy. Bright. Brutal.
There was a knock on the door.
I turned slightly. "Come in."
My right-hand man entered. “Sir, everything’s arranged. Mr. Mehta is expecting you at 7 p.m. sharp.”
“Good,” I said, downing the drink in one go. “Time to make an impression.”
I went to take a shower cold, quick, calculated like everything I did. Then I dressed again. Black shirt. Rolex. Gun in the holster under my jacket. Just in case.
By 6:45, I was in the car, watching the streets of Mumbai blur past.
And as we pulled up to the towering building where the meeting was supposed to happen, I felt it that instinctive pull in my chest.
The building loomed ahead glass and steel, shiny enough to scream power, but not strong enough to hide intentions.
My guards moved first, checking the surroundings, the lobby, the elevators. Paranoia wasn’t a habit in my line of work it was survival.
We were led to the 33rd floor. Private, quiet, too quiet.
A man in a white kurta greeted me at the door with a fake smile and folded hands. “Mr. Mehta is waiting inside, Signore De Romano.”
I nodded once, stepping in.
The room was dimly lit, long mahogany table at the center, large windows behind. Mr. Mehta stood up, dressed in a formal navy suit, gold watch, and smug expression. Too polished for a man with blood on his hands.
“Ah, the infamous Lorenzo De Romano,” he said in a thick accent, extending his hand.
I took it but didn’t smile. “Let’s make this quick.”
He chuckled. “Of course. But first, a toast. Italian hospitality deserves Indian welcome.”
A waiter walked in with two glasses of dark wine. I hesitated, narrowed my eyes. My right-hand man looked at me subtly. No signal. No threat detected.
Still, my instincts buzzed.
But I took the glass. Power moves required performance.
“To new beginnings,” he said.
I clinked the glass, watched him sip his own first.
Then I drank.
It burned, but not like alcohol should. Too bitter. Too fast. My vision swam instantly.
I blinked once. Twice.
The glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the ground.
The room spun violently, my knees buckled.
"Che cazzo…" I muttered under my breath, reaching for the gun but it was too late.
Darkness clawed at the edges of my vision.
I heard Mehta’s voice, muffled. “You should’ve never stepped foot in India, Lorenzo.”
Then everything went black.
When I came to, it was night.
My head throbbed like someone had cracked it open and stitched it back with fire. My mouth was dry. My limbs weak, aching, cold.
I was lying on the pavement.
Streets buzzed around me cars honking, people walking past, some glancing, most ignoring. No guards. No gun. No wallet.
I was in a dark alley, blood on my shirt, coat torn, one side of my face bruised.
Thrown away like a piece of trash.
They tried to kill me.
Tried.
I pushed myself up, groaning.
Every inch of my body screamed, but my rage silenced it.
This wasn’t just an attack. This was a message.
But they forgot something very important…
I don’t die that easily.