Potere | Book II ✓

xxvii | one last time

xxvii | one last time

a/n: woke up at 5am to edit this b/c i couldn't sleep and all of a sudden my 13k worded chapter read like trash lmfaoooo the standard i hold myself to is ridiculous. hope you enjoy.

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A seventeen-year-old soldier strides down the hallway of the Luciano empire, his heavy footsteps drowning out the sound of the sole of his military grade boots against the wooden floors.  A Kevlar vest is strapped tight to the soldier's fit frame, exposing the sleeves of his black compression shirt.  Black cargo pants hang low on his waist and bunch at the beginning of his boots.  Sheathed daggers hang from the holster on his left thigh, while a gun is nestled in the one on his right.  Those are the only weapons you can see, but rest assured, the young soldier is heavily armed.

Michael Davidé Luciano is standing before the full-length mirror in his office, shrugging the deep burgundy suit jacket onto his shoulders.  He fixes the collar in a fluid motion before buttoning it.  He winces.  Then unbuttons the jacket.  A casual look today.  Michael always preached that an outfit wasn't finished without the diamonds in his ears, but today he would have to settle with the rings on his fingers and the chain that clings tight against the skin at the base of his neck.

He was running late, and one look in the mirror suggested that the soldier standing underneath his doorway was there to tell him just that.

"You're late," The soldier states, as predicted.

Michael glances over his shoulder quickly, "Are you rushing me, Tatum?"

The fear the king's words instill in the young soldier is evident.  It's a known fact that Michael doesn't take kindly to those who march into his office without being summoned first.  And Tatum is aware he wouldn't be the first soldier executed by the king himself for something as little as being annoying.

Tatum glances at the ground for a second, then meets Michael's gaze.  "Yes, I am rushing you, sir."  His voice isn't quite as deep as his superior, but he does his best to match it—a serious tone growing with every word.  "We take precious time out of our day to schedule the route of your transport and we pre-check every road and every damn high-rise on that street to make sure you don't die on any given day.  I haven't been doing this long, but I do know that every second counts.  One second too late and two seconds too early and the next face you may see is your maker.  So, with all due respect, I'm rushing you."

Tatum doesn't see the smile that crosses Michael's face.  Not many people stand up to the Don of the Luciano empire.  The young soldier passed his test.

The two men exit swiftly, Tatum leading the way by a step.  Michael finally speaks.  "You will never be the commander of my army, but you keep that attitude, and you may be the commander of my son's."

Tatum chuckles in disbelief.  He glances over his shoulder briefly, catching the eye of his superior.  "You really think I'll live that long? Long enough to see Liam take the throne?"

Michael doesn't hesitate.  "You're the youngest solider in my army.  You better live that long." 

The young soldier stops in hesitation, allowing Michael to pass him.  Tatum hooks his fingers around the collar of his bulletproof vest and clears his throat.  "Sir, in all honesty—"

Michael tosses his head back, eyes closing just long enough for him to gather himself.  Words never come to him easily, especially those that carry emotion.  The king slips a hand inside his burgundy dress pants and faces the soldier.  "Tatum, I didn't train you for me.  I'm not preparing you to be the commander of my army.  I'm preparing you to be the commander of Liam's."