𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐭 𝐃𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐚
25 years old, a billionaire and Mafia Don. Everyone fears, admires and respects him.
𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐬
20 years old and works in a bakery. Despite having a bad past, she is a really sweet and down-to-earth per...
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My office reeked of freshly polished mahogany and the faint scent of cigars, though I didn’t smoke. The heavy oak desk before me was cluttered with ledgers, shipping manifests, and contracts that required my attention. Seven years as the Italian Don had taught me patience, though my younger brother Dante often tested it.
Just as I was signing off on the latest deal, the door swung open with a loud bang. Dante strolled in, his usual unapologetic grin plastered on his face. No knock. Again.
I leaned back in my leather chair, folding my hands. My gaze burned into his as he scratched the back of his neck, his posture nervous yet casual. "Scusa, fratello," he muttered sheepishly.
"Knocking doesn’t cost a dime," I said dryly, the edge in my voice slicing through the room. "Do that again, and you might lose the hand that opens the door."
His grin faltered for a second before he held up both hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, I’m sorry! You always have to be so dramatic."
"What do you want, Dante?" I asked, ignoring his jab. He shifted on his feet, his usual hyper energy bubbling just under the surface. His wide, brown eyes gleamed with excitement as he blurted out, "Right! I hacked into the Russian Mafia’s systems and found information on the traitor. Our men tracked him down—he’s at Warehouse 4 now."
That caught my attention. The Russians had been meddling in our operations for months, sabotaging shipments and leaving a trail of chaos. Their Don, Nikolas Volkov, thought sending me a photo of stolen goods would intimidate me. He was unaware I’d already burned his most recent shipment of weapons.
I smirked, standing and grabbing my blazer from the chair. The anticipation of confrontation set my blood thrumming. "Now you have my attention," I said, sliding my gun into its holster. Dante followed behind me like an obedient puppy, muttering under his breath, "Psychopath."
The hallway leading out of the mansion was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the roaring fire in my chest. On our way out, I sent a quick text to Enzo: Meet me at Warehouse 4.
By the time we reached my sleek black Porsche, Dante was already babbling about something unrelated, his voice filling the air like white noise. The moment we got into the car, he glanced at me, brows furrowed. "What about Enzo?"
"We’ll meet him there," I replied curtly, starting the car. The engine roared to life, and I pressed down on the accelerator. The open road stretched out ahead, each mile bringing me closer to spilling blood.
For once, Dante was silent. At least until his stomach growled loudly, breaking the quiet. "Cazzo!" he cursed, slumping back in his seat. "I forgot to eat breakfast. Can we stop somewhere? I think my sugar levels are dropping."
