Break Me | 1

There are five De Luca brothers. The world thinks there are only four that matter.

The De Luca name is written in concrete and blood across this city. My father, Arturo De Luca, carved the dynasty out of backroom deals and back alley endings. He called it legacy. The feds called it organized crime. The city council called him Mr De Luca and took his money anyway.

By the time I was ten, I knew three truths:

One, the De Luca table sits five, but it never feeds all of us at once.

Two, loyalty is a knife you keep in your own ribs so no one else can twist it.

Three, I was the only one dumb enough to inherit the handle.

I’m Kade De Luca. Twenty-five. Fifth born. The only son who stayed.

Not because I’m loyal. Because I’m cold.

Blades don’t penetrate. Bullets don’t surprise me. Love doesn’t exist. I am the brother they leave the wet work to, the one who makes problems stop breathing. The family call me the impenetrable bastard to my face. I take it as a job title.

The rest of them? They ran. And I let them.

Killian De Luca, 29. The oldest. He trades in lives instead of taking them. Runs Westbridge Private Hospital, owns half the surgical wing with his name on it. Brilliant hands, steady pulse, zero tolerance for bullshit. He shows up to Sunday dinner like it’s a medical conference, in at seven, out by nine, never touches the family wine. He doesn’t ask what I do. I don’t ask who he patches up off the books. We respect the distance. It’s the only thing civil between us.

Kode De Luca, 27. Second oldest. Architect. He builds glass towers that catch the sunrise and pretends our last name is just a coincidence. He hasn’t been to a family dinner in three years. Sends a bottle of scotch at Christmas with no card. He built his firm without De Luca money and he’ll burn the bridge before he lets anyone think otherwise. I don’t blame him. I’d do the same if I had anything worth saving.

Kory De Luca, 27. Kode’s twin, and the family’s favorite hypocrisy. Minimal involvement, he says. He’s FBI, New York Bureau. Badge, gun, and a federal pension. He visits often, holidays, birthdays, Arturo’s cigars and bourbon nights. He sits at the table, eats my father’s food, and sleeps fine knowing half the men in this house are on his watchlist. He tells himself he’s here to keep us out of prison. I tell myself he’s here because he misses the blood. We haven’t called each other on it. We won’t.

Then there’s Kaden De Luca, 25. My twin. My mirror with sharper teeth. If I’m cold, Kaden’s absolute zero. He wanted no part of Arturo’s empire, so he built his own. Tech, logistics, private security, all clean, all his, all without a cent of De Luca money. He doesn’t do family dinners. He doesn’t do phone calls. Last time I saw him was two years ago, through the scope of a problem we both wanted solved. We nodded. We handled it. We walked opposite directions. That’s brotherhood, De Luca style.

Me? I’m the one who stayed in the house with the ghosts and the guns. Arturo’s getting old, and someone has to hold the line when the wolves test the fence. The city thinks the De Luca dynasty is crumbling because four brothers walked away.

They’re wrong.

It didn’t crumble. It narrowed. Down to a single point.

Me.

Killian saves lives. Kode designs them. Kory arrests the men who end them. Kaden buys and sells them.

I end them.

At dinner last month, Arturo looked down the table, Killian checking his watch, Kory talking to no one, two empty chairs for the ghosts who don’t come home, and then his eyes landed on me.

“At least one of my sons didn’t run,” he said.

I didn’t correct him. Running implies you were afraid. My brothers weren’t afraid. They were smart.

I’m the one who stayed because I stopped feeling anything worth running from.

Three nights ago, I got a call. A name I buried three years back on the side of Route 9, choking on my own blood.

Luna Marino.

She’s back in my city. Back in my air.

And for the first time in three years, the cold cracked. Just a hairline fracture. Enough to feel something.

Not fear. Not yet.

Just the promise of violence.

The De Lucas don’t get happy endings. We get even. And I’ve got a debt with her name carved into my ribs.

Let the prodigal bastards keep their hospitals and blueprints and badges.

The dynasty is mine now. And I’m an impenetrable bastard with a score to settle.