Chapter 1
Dante
The man I came for, Marcus Linzy, waited inside La Stanza Della Morte-the room of death-trussed to a chair. Luca Vitale, my right hand, later confided that Marcus had been trembling, bargaining with God in a language he never used while stealing from our family. That, more than the betrayal itself, was why my father sent me personally to clean up his mess.
This family does not tolerate spiritual opportunism. The villa slept beneath the velvet hush of midnight, serene and untouched, bathed in silver moonlight. Tuscan winds sighed through aged stone walls, a sound I favored over any music.
Cypress trees towered like black sentinels, accusatory and still. Two members of my security detail stood motionless at the entrance, guarding the silence. Luca waited for me. I eased my black Maserati to a stop.
Gravel crunched beneath my shoe, a brief, brutal announcement. I rolled my cuffs to my elbows, revealing the clean olive line of skin, then drew my Beretta 92FS from the six-o'clock position. A fresh magazine slid home with a decisive click. My footsteps echoed across the courtyard flagstones, measured and unhurried. Inside, the grand hallway gleamed. Marble floors caught the ambient light.
Frescoes crowned gilded ceilings, and centuries of bloodline power breathed through every carved pillar.
They didn't build this grandeur to impress kings. The structure reminded monsters like me what we protect. Luca fell into step, half a pace behind.
"The room is ready. All optics are dead."
"Good." My gaze stayed on the oppressive darkness above as we climbed the worn stone stairs, leather soles crushing lavender sprigs left by the housekeepers. The upper corridor door groaned open, cedar and secrets spilling into the air. We passed the dining hall and swept past the grand piano, where I once played sonatas to draw out screams. When I say screams, I mean men welcomed into our family who later betrayed us.
My father never took that well. He tortured them with jellyfish, extracting information, then let the stings finish the job if he remained unsatisfied. Some call him brutal. I call him calculating. The corridor bent left, narrow, walls lined with portraits of stern men with eyes colder than mine.
Perhaps one had spilled blood in the very room I approached. The thought settled warmly in my chest. We stopped at the last door. One turn and history would repeat itself. Luca opened it. Candlelight spilled across the room, exactly as ordered. A king-size bed, crisp white and offensively pure. Velvet drapes swallowed the light.
Chandelier crystals shimmered like wet diamonds. Moonlight sliced the floor through a narrow window, a blade of silver. The traitor sat in the chair by the bed. Rope bound his hands together.
Duct tape sealed his mouth shut. His knees shook so hard the chair creaked in protest. He stared at me with a hopeful look, as if this were a discussion. He was wrong. I advanced, slow and deliberate, a predator studying the last flicker of prey. "You sold our shipment to the Bratva after learning my father has dementia. You thought I wouldn't find out?" He shook his head, muffled pleas spilling wet and useless.
I flicked my wrist. Luca crossed the room in two strides. Tape tore free. Marcus sobbed.
"Please... I have a family to feed."
Everyone does. Some just lose them sooner through fatal stupidity. I raised the Beretta. The cold barrel kissed his nasion, the soft dip between nose and forehead. "Your choices killed you long before I arrived." One flex of my finger. The suppressor turned the shot into a dull cough. Blood erupted, splattering my face and suit. It bloomed across the antique rug like a black-red rose-my favorite color. Silence followed, sweet and euphonious. I exhaled, savoring it. Death never rattled me. What always did was the moment after-the breathless void where the mind has nowhere to hide. Luca moved immediately, wrapping the body in plastic with quiet precision. Loyal to the bone.
***
I walked to the bathroom. Marble gleamed beneath the soft light. Brass taps curved like gold serpents. Blood clung to my skin. Fuck. I stripped-black shirt, pants, shoes, socks-and stepped into the shower. Water roared to life, hot and violent, a baptism for sinners. Soft and suffocating, the steam swirled all around me. Blood spiraled down the drain in crimson ribbons. When I emerged, a towel hung low on my waist. My men had already handled the body, rug, bullet casting, and his offshore accounts. All that remained was a final clean. I needed a distraction. I needed release. She knelt near the vanity, two feet in front of me, cleaning the floor. Hair pulled into a high ponytail. Black-and-white uniform, worn in a way that felt intentional.
Atella Swollen-my personal cleaner. The only one who had seen me at my worst and never flinched. Most women would do anything to be this close. She never asked questions. Never asked whose blood stained the marble. She moved as if she weren't standing beside a killer. Her eyes met mine slowly and deliberate. Her aura does something to me.
It always has. "I believe you've missed a spot here." She kneels in-front of me and is about to clean. I clenched my jaw; "Why don't you show me your best cleaning skills?" My breath hitched at the sudden display of obedience. I love obedience. It makes me feel powerful and in control. I was so into it I failed to see or hear when Luca and my men entered. Luca cleared his throat.
"What?" I asked gruffly. "Tonight's flight?"
Luca nodded, his expression serious. "Yes, boss. Your private jet leaves in the next hour. You have a meeting in LA with your father at 3 p.m." He paused, glancing at Atella on her knees cleaning before me. "And what about...her?" He gestured vaguely towards her.
"Go home," I ordered roughly, fixing the towel around my waist. "Don't come back until I'm back from LA." I then turned to Luca.
He nodded and ushered her out of the room. My other men followed her. Once we were alone, I turned to Luca. "How long am I staying in LA?" I asked gruffly, running a hand through my damp hair.
Luca answered in his Italian accent, "That's up to your father to decide." I scoffed at the mention of my father. "Fucking old man," I muttered under my breath.
I trusted no one more than Luca, but my father was a close second. He is the head of the Moretti mafia family, and I'm his heir apparent.
"Pack my suits," Luca nodded and began packing my suitcase efficiently.
As he worked, I stripped out of my towel and began dressing in my black and white suit: a white shirt, a black vest, a black tie, and black pants. Once I'm fully dressed, my gaze flicked to Luca. "Send four SUVs for my men. I'll take the Maserati." Luca nodded and sent the SUVs right away. As we exited the villa, my Maserati arrived.
I slipped into the driver's seat while my eyes scanned the surrounding area as Luca climbed into the passenger seat; "Andiamo". The two black SUVs rolled out in front of us while the next two were at the back.
***
I kept my private jet at the family's private airstrip, which was just twenty minutes away. My father wanted me to keep my movements hidden because Detective Rivera and Clear were trying to track me down.
They hated our family so much that they would destroy themselves to bring us down; which I would love to see them try, by the way. Besides, my black Gulfstream G650ER is way faster than any commercial plane. I call it-Stacy. She's equipped with state-of-the-art technology and security features to ensure my safety and privacy during travel. As we pulled up to the airstrip, the crew was already waiting, ready to prepare for takeoff. I exited the Maserati then sharpened my gaze, taking in everything; "Let's board," I commanded Luca and my goons. Once I entered the jet, I settled into my preferred seat at the end.
Los Angeles is twelve hours away. Get to LAX in twelve hours, then clear security, and then get to Bel-Air. By 3 PM, I would meet my father. He would wait in the study at the mansion, expecting me to carry the weight of Moretti power in my hands. He didn't know yet that some of his old enemies were already lining up to test me.
***
I turned my attention to the digital map on the seated console. Tuscany faded behind me. Over the Atlantic, clouds stretched like a battlefield frozen in silver.
My gaze hardened. I made a calculated decision. And yet...there was always a part of me that thrived on chaos. Power has taught me that. Power has taught me that. A soft chime drew my attention to Luca Vitale, my right hand, seated across the cabin. His eyes, always alert, met mine, and in that moment, he didn't need words.
I had left instructions for everything-arrival, SUVs, security sweeps. "All on schedule," he murmured in his low, gravelly tone. I nodded once. Time in the air allowed me to do some reflection.
The murder of Marcus had been...necessary, quick and precise. But I thought about the moment after the shot. Each kill reminded me of the emptiness inside, the space I tried to fill with control, with power, and with pleasure.
Fuck! I need a drink.
I reached for the intercom button, my voice coming out rough and commanding. "Send her in. Now." I released the button, waiting impatiently for her to appear.
She entered the cabin cautiously five minutes later, after Luca left to give us privacy. Her head was down, and her hands clasped behind her back. "What took you so long?" I commanded an answer but didn't wait for her to respond. I clenched my jaw; "I would love to punish you."
She lifted her head and kneeled before me with a playful smile; "Do it the best way possible."
***
