From the moment he was born, someone craved to witness his demise. Someone whom he never recognized.
Forsaken by his family that he never knew. Thrashed aside to an orphanage before having the least of the birthrights that any child deserves to retain. A name.
Adopted by one of the most feared mafias and underworld lords Santino Russo. The moment he stretched his hands forcing him to choose what will radically change his life.
Fire flew around them burning anything and everything in sight, turning to ashes everything he knew in the last eight years of his life.
His small child's fingers fell on the Italian old man's open, hard surface palm. His entire left angle was tainted by the fire reflection that held nostalgically the color of the down.
And by that, the moment he joined his hands with his rescuer. He became a Russo himself. The only and rightful heir of the Russo family.
Creating one of the most well-known nightclubs in LA and the USA known by the fallen angels, he has won a place that many wish for. He has proven his worth and made good use of the chance that has landed on no one but chose to be given to him. He has made a name for himself. A name that was respected and esteemed once heard. The name that marked the beginning of his new life.
The verve of a mafia lord who was picked up from the street. Who had corrupted blood of the unknown running down his veins was never expected to be easy, but hardship was pretty much scheduled and calculated to fall in its place when its time ultimately comes.
One thing he didn't plan was a little redhead invading his life, lurking where she never belonged.