Chapter 1 #2
Beautiful in the way men fall for. Fuckable in a way that would keep you awake at night and cloud your judgment. But it’s the look in her eyes that pulls me in. Dark. Wild. Untamed. There’s heat there. Anger too. The kind that doesn’t scream but waits.
That stare isn’t curiosity; it’s a challenge.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, aware of the effect her body has. The way her dress clings to her hips, and her mouth is set as if daring someone to say the wrong thing. She’s not a sheltered princess; she’s a weapon Serrano never bothered to lock away.
That girl isn’t trouble just waiting to happen.
She’s a lit fuse hidden in silk and skin, just waiting for someone careless enough to strike the match.
She watches me pass, the heat still burning in that stare, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a second look. Whatever fire she’s hiding behind those eyes, she can keep it. I have bigger battles to fight.
My men stay close behind me. They move with me like shadows I trained myself.
The meeting room looms ahead. Dark wood. High ceilings. Walls of black walnut stretch upward, built to absorb sound. Every inch of this space is designed to remind you who’s in charge, and who’s just one wrong word away from getting their throat cut.
I step across the threshold, and the room feels different. Heavy. Watching.
Giovanni Trezzi and Marco Leone sit at the far end, already waiting.
Two snakes in Brioni suits, smiles coated with cheap charm and cheaper loyalty.
I’ve heard their names a hundred times in my uncle’s voice, always followed by the same warning: They’ll kiss your hand one day and slit your throat the next.
If they twitch wrong, finish it before they beg.
They glance up when I enter. Eyes darting. Hands twitching. Weak men in strong suits, fighting to hold a seat at a table they never earned.
I see the fear they’re trying to hide. I can smell it on them.
My men spread out, taking their usual positions against the walls. Eyes alert. Hands near their steel.
I don’t head for my usual seat, that one halfway down the table, empty, still haunted by the ghost of the boy who used to sit beside Matteo and keep his fucking mouth shut.
I keep walking straight to the chair that built this empire one bullet at a time. My uncle’s seat. Heavy-backed. Black leather worn soft from decades of blood-soaked decisions and men around the table begging for mercy that never came.
It isn’t just a chair; it’s a fucking crown.
I drag it back slowly enough to let them feel it, then I sit right at the head of the table. My spine straight, my eyes forward.
Someone laughs.
The kind of sound that slips under your skin and tries to crawl up your spine.
It spreads quickly.
Soft at first, just a chuckle behind a glass of scotch, a twitch of a mouth that thinks it’s clever.
Another man joins in, smirking as if he knows something I don’t. Someone clears their throat, coughs into their fist, eyes flicking sideways. One asshole takes a long drag from his cigar, his lips smirking.
They believe I’m pretending, wearing a suit too heavy for my shoulders, playing the role of a man I’m not. They think this chair is borrowed, that I’m just keeping it warm for the next unlucky bastard stupid enough to want it.
They remember the kid—sharp-eyed, and silent. The one who sat beside Matteo, the boy who listened more than he spoke, watched more than he blinked.
Good.
Let them fucking laugh.
Let them confuse memory with weakness.
Let them struggle to breathe the same smug breath they’ll use to beg for mercy when this room turns red.
I lean back into the chair, spine pressing deep into the leather, as if it’s been waiting for me this whole fucking time. As if this is where I’ve always belonged.
The light hits the scars on my knuckles. I don’t hide them. Let them fucking look.
Let them see what’s been carved into me. What I bled for. What I buried. Let them see that, after Matteo threw a match into the legacy, the power didn’t die.
It shifted. They thought the crown fell when Matteo dropped it. They didn’t notice I caught it on the way down.
“I’m not here to play nice,” I say, voice low and steady. “I’m here to remind you the name De Luca still carries weight. And if any of you forget that, if any of you think this empire’s up for grabs, then speak now. So I know who needs to die first.”
The words settle into the room.
No one moves.
No one laughs now.
Glasses pause halfway to mouths.
Even the men who were smirking a second ago go still, their expressions tightening as the truth sinks in. This is a line being drawn in blood.
Giovanni Trezzi leans forward, his voice smooth with mock calm. “Doesn’t matter how loud you bark, Lorenzo. As long as Matteo’s still breathing, the empire belongs to him.”
Someone murmurs behind him, “What about Alessandro?”
Giovanni answers before I can, saying, “He’ll never come back. Not with the feds crawling up his ass. Matteo is the rightful heir.”
A pause.
Long enough to make a point before he continues.
“Until he’s no longer breathing.”
I smile. “Then maybe it’s time someone pulled the fucking trigger.”
The room stills. It goes dead quiet.
One of the Serrano dogs leans forward. Thick fingers hold his cigar, the tip slowly burning in the dim light. He exhales smoke through his nose, relaxed and enjoying himself.
“All we see,” he says, voice low, “is a boy sitting in a dead man’s chair, playing at being a king.”
The words hit hard. They’re disrespect masked as confidence. The kind that leads men to the grave.
He believes this is just a test. That I’m still that seventeen-year-old kid sitting in silence, taking notes, praying not to mess it up. He doesn’t see the man sitting here now, the man who buried that kid with his own hands.
I’m twenty-five. I’ve seen what loyalty costs. I’ve made men scream through broken teeth. I’ve slit throats in the dark and smiled after. He thinks I don’t know how many bodies this chair has sent into the ground. But I do.
I helped dig the holes.
Poor fucking bastard.
If these men want to test me, then let them. They’ll find out quickly that I don’t bluff. I lean forward, elbows on the table. Wood creaks under my shifting weight.
“The first man who moves from this table eats a bullet before his next breath. And the sons of anyone who follows will bleed beside him.” My voice is cold, calm, the kind that makes men swallow wrong.
The room freezes.
Chairs stop creaking.
Glasses hover in midair.
“Test me,” I say. “I’ll paint these walls with your blood, fuck your wives while they’re still dressed in black, and have your daughters calling my men daddy by morning.”
I place my hands on the table.
“You think the De Luca name is dead?” I say. “I’m still breathing. And as long as I am, every one of you answers to me.”
The silence that ensues is heavy. Uncomfortable. It creeps across the table and settles into bones.
Moretti finally pushes back.
“Why should we follow you?” He asks. “What do you bring that Matteo doesn’t?”
I don’t hesitate.
“I’ll find Matteo, and I’ll fucking put an end to him.”
A ripple flows through the room. Sharp breaths. Eyes flickering. No one interrupts me now.
“You want to know how that helps you?” I continue. “It closes the wound. No ghosts. No loose ends. No divided loyalty.”
Arturo Serrano shifts in his chair. I turn my head and look straight at him.
“And I’ll bind the families,” I say. “Not with promises. With blood.”
His jaw clenches.
“Your daughter,” I say calmly. “She becomes mine. I marry her. We seal this the old way. De Luca and Serrano tied so tight no one can pry us apart without losing a hand. That’s how this fucking helps you. Stability. Control. Profit. A future that doesn’t bleed out in the streets.”
I lean back into my uncle’s chair and claim it with my spine.
“Now you get to decide,” I say. “You follow me and live rich, or you back a ghost and look over your shoulder for the rest of your life”
Serrano leans back, eyes narrowed, with a cigarette burning low between his fingers. All eyes in the room are on him as he taps the ash into a gold ashtray, before he looks me straight in the eye.
“You think you can tame her?” Arturo Serrano asks, voice rough with amusement, but his eyes are all steel. Testing me.
I don’t blink.
“I won’t tame her. I’ll marry her. There’s a difference.”
The air lingers still for a beat too long. Smoke coils. Glasses sweat. No one moves.
Arturo leans back, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He studies me intently.
His fingers tap slowly against his glass. Then he gives me a single nod.
“Then so be it,” he says. “The marriage stands.” He shifts in his chair again. “You want unity?” he adds, tone clipped. “You’ve got it.”
But it’s not just him I need. I let my eyes drift across the table.
One by one, the men meet my eyes.
Most of them nod. One raises his glass just slightly. The message is clear.
Agreement. Not warmth. Not trust. But respect.
One by one, they push their chairs back and start to file out.
They came expecting a boy playing dress-up. The orphaned nephew. The quiet shadow.
What they discovered was something else entirely.