Chapter 1
They say everything happens for a reason,
except I don’t believe in that one bit.
The only thing I believe in
is myself.
Salvatore Dela Morte
The VIP lounge at Euphoria felt like the heart of a hidden world, with shadows dancing to the rhythm of secrets.
Salvatore Dela Morte sat in the darkness, a mysterious and powerful figure. The occasional flicker of the dance club’s neon lights brought him into stark ease. His presence commanded the place, easily magnetic, but a palpable apathy clung to him like an unbreakable blanket. He could hardly rid himself of it, no matter how hard he tried. Except for a few close friends, most people had no clue.
The glass of whisky in his hand was half-empty, the amber liquid reflecting the flicker of neon lights from the dance floor below. He absentmindedly swished the tumbler of whisky in his hand, the amber liquid catching the sporadic glimmers of coloured light radiating from down below. The muffled throb of the music was seemingly a distant echo, barely filtered through the reinforced glass before him. It raged on like a heartbeat that reminded him of the life he led—one foot in darkness, the other in an even deeper abyss.
He was a figure of sombre style, clad in a tailored charcoal suit that whispered of both power and restraint. The fabric, soft as a sigh, clung to his broad shoulders and tapered waist, hinting at the strength that lay beneath. His crisp white shirt, a stark contrast to the dark suit, was open at the collar, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin and a silver pendant that gleamed with understated significance.
His trousers, impeccably pressed, fell in clean lines, to polished leather shoes that caught the light with every subtle movement. Over his seat was draped a long, black coat, its edges brushing the floor as if it were a cloak of shadows. Peeking out the pocket of the coat were a pair of gloves, dark as the night outside, completing an ensemble that was as much his armour as it were his attire.
His shoes were a masterpiece of craftsmanship, with every stitch a testimony to the meticulous attention to detail of their craftsman. Made from the finest Italian leather, they were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the dim light of the room. The shoes were black, their sleek design exuding a timeless sophistication that complemented his entire ensemble. The soles were sturdy yet flexible, designed for both comfort and a silent, confident stride. They were a symbol of his refined taste and his readiness to walk the path laid out before him, no matter how treacherous it might be.
Every piece of his wardrobe was chosen with the precision of a man who understood the silent language of appearance. Wolf’s attire was not just clothing but a statement, a carefully curated image that spoke volumes of the weight of his leadership.
He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the intricate carvings on the ceiling, their elaborate patterns lost in the half-light. The weight of his lineage pressed down on him, a shackle more binding than any iron chain. The bastard son of the head of the crime family, a title whispered in the corridors of Nerezza with a mix of reverence and disdain. It wasn’t merely the shadow of his illegitimacy that fanned the whispers into a wildfire, but rather the enigma of his mixed heritage that stirred a particular disdain among the prominent families of Nerezza’s inferno.
The murmurs, though persistent, dared not cross the threshold into his presence, held at bay by the formidable armour of his undeniable prowess and keen intellect. His very essence seemed to command a respect that silenced tongues, a silent sentinel that guarded him against the slings and arrows of overt disdain.
Salvatore resided in the ancient city of Nerezza, where the air was thick with history and the streets wound like serpents through the heart of the old world. He was known throughout the streets of Nerezza as the ‘Wild Wolf,’ a moniker whispered in hushed tones and spoken with a mix of fear and awe. In the underworld of the city, where power was the currency of respect, Salvatore’s reputation preceded him like the darkest shadow cast by the moon.
’Il Lupo Selvaggio,’ as he was known in the local dialect, or simply Il Lupo, was a figure of mythic proportions, a man whose very name sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to defy him. His reputation was built on a foundation of ruthless efficiency and unwavering loyalty to his family, the DelaMorte clan, who ruled the city’s underworld with an iron fist.
Salvatore earned his nickname not only for his cunning and ferocity but also for his ability to strike swiftly and decisively, much like a wild wolf hunting its prey. His keen intellect and strategic mind were his greatest weapons, honed through years of navigating the treacherous waters of Nerezza’s criminal underbelly.
But despite his fearsome reputation, there was a complexity to Salvatore that few outside his inner circle ever saw. He was a man of unwavering loyalty to those he considered family, a man who would go to great lengths to protect those under his care. His code of honour, though unconventional by societal standards, was deeply ingrained, and he adhered to it with a steadfast resolve.
To some, the Wild Wolf was a villain, a shadowy figure lurking in the darkness. But to those who knew him best, he was a leader, a protector, and a man whose loyalty knew no bounds. In the dark streets of Nerezza, the Wolf reigned supreme, a legend in his own right, a force of nature that could not be tamed.
The city was Wolf’s heart and soul. It provided him comfort and pride, a place he revered as the perfect home. Here, he became the person he was meant to be, shaped and strengthened by its streets like steel in a forge.
Nerezza was a city steeped in the echoes of its storied past, where every stone in the ancient buildings whispered tales of bygone eras. Situated on the sun-kissed shores of the Tyrrhenian Sea, Nerezza was a place where the line between myth and reality blurred, and history lived and breathed alongside its inhabitants.
The metropolitan’s architecture was a testament to its rich heritage, with towering cathedrals and ornate palazzos that spoke of a time when Nerezza was a jewel in the crown of empires. Narrow cobblestone streets snaked through the city like the tendrils of a labyrinth, leading to hidden piazzas and bustling markets where the aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the scent of ambrosial spices.
Despite its beauty, Nerezza bore the scars of its tumultuous past. The remnants of ancient walls and fortresses stood as silent sentinels, reminders of the city’s strategic importance in times of war and conquest. Yet, amid the remnants of the old, Nerezza was also a city of vibrant life and culture. Its cafes buzzed with animated conversations, its theatres echoed with the strains of music and the applause of enraptured audiences, and its streets pulsed with the rhythm of life.
But beneath its charming facade, Nerezza harboured secrets darker than the shadows that danced along its alleys.
It was a city of contrasts, where beauty and danger walked hand in hand, and where one wrong turn could lead to a world of trouble. In Nerezza, Wolf navigated these complexities with the skill of a seasoned navigator, his every move calculated, his every decision a step closer to either triumph or ruin.
And right then, Wolf’s thoughts wandered to his father, a figure of cold authority who had plucked him from his mother’s family in the Far East, a land now more a dream than a memory. His mother’s soft voice, the scent of cherry blossoms in spring—fragments of a stolen past. At the tender age of seven, his father plucked him from the only world he knew and brought him to RoMia, thrusting him into a strange and alien world of power and violence. Then, with the same indifference one might show a discarded chess piece, the man proceeded to neglect him.
Resentment simmered within Wolf, a constant companion. He resented his father for the life he had been forced into, for the heritage he was expected to uphold, and for the mother he barely remembered or cared about. The whisky burned his throat, a welcome distraction from the bitterness within him that tasted even sharper.
Outside the confines of this exclusive nightclub, the city of Nerezza pulsed with its own life, oblivious to the turmoil brewing within the VIP room. Wolf closed his eyes, the noise of the club fading as his mind drifted to the events of the day that had passed. In that moment of solitude, he knew that the path ahead was fraught with peril, a labyrinth of shadows and light. He opened his eyes, determination hardening his gaze. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it, not as the bastard son of a crime lord, but as a man seeking his own destiny.
The room’s dark walls seemed to absorb the weak attempts at illumination, casting everything in a dim, dreamlike glow. Wolf’s reflection in the glass held a gaze that was both familiar and foreign, his grey-blue eyes a stark reminder of the worlds he straddled. His father’s heritage was etched in his features, while the only physical reminder he had of his mother’s roots lingered in the shape of his eyes.
His thoughts shifted to his mother, a woman he knew more from faded photographs and distant memories than from reality. He remembered her teaching him Japanese phrases, her laughter like a melody he could never quite recall. She was the one who had given him the name Ryouichi - a name that meant good first son. His uncle Kenji later unveiled the significance behind the name to him. Wolf frequently pondered why his mother had selected it. Perhaps she had envisioned him embodying the essence of a good son, but such thoughts and aspirations proved as fruitless as they were fleeting, much like the life that had slipped away from her before he even had a chance to know her.
His father had torn him away from that world, stripping him of his name as though it were a coarse and savage moniker unfitting for the boy chosen to be part of his family. He replaced it with Salvatore, an act meant to brutally sever his ties to Nihono with utmost finality while acquainting him with his current home. Except his father remained unaware that Wolf kept in contact with his uncle, an act of rebellion, albeit understated and discreet.
The sound of laughter drifted up from the club below, incongruous and jarring against his sombre reflections. Wolf took another sip of his whiskey, the liquid fire reminding him that he was alive, that he still had choices to make. He looked down at his hands, strong yet trembling slightly as if the weight of his dual heritage was more than he could bear.
Wolf lifted the glass to his lips and took another sip, savouring the taste as it slid down his throat. His gaze, however, remained distant, fixed on the undulating crowd below as if seeking something—or someone—beyond the chaotic mass. The throb of the music was a constant reminder of the world that moved around him, yet he seemed detached from it, often an observer rather than a participant in the revelry.
His mind wandered, slipping through the corridors of memory and expectation. The weight of his legacy pressed upon him, a crown heavy with the responsibilities of power and the ghosts of those who came before him. Each sip of whisky was a small rebellion against the suffocating inevitability of his role, a brief moment of solitude amidst the cacophony of his existence.
As the night wore on, Wolf remained an enigma, a striking figure in a tableau of decadence and excess. The world outside the glass continued its dance, oblivious to the silent storm brewing behind his dark eyes. The women laughed, his men kept watch, and the music played on, but in the heart of the club’s pulsing life, Salvatore DelaMorte sat, striking yet bored, a king in a gilded cage.
Moments later, Mia pushed open the door to the VIP room, her presence a quiet contrast to the thumping chaos below. Wolf glanced up, acknowledging her with a slight nod as she approached, the soft click of her heels muffled by the plush carpet. Tonight, she was dressed to impress, and Wolf couldn’t help but appreciate how she looked more feminine than usual.
