"Nobody is allowed between these pretty little thighs but me....and if anyone tries...𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."
~
They call him The King-a ghost who rules the world's most powerful mafia from the shadows. No face. No mercy. No mistakes.
And beside...
-"He wears the smell of blood and death like cologne."-
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Brooklyn was cold tonight. Not weather-wise—Brooklyn didn't do cold like Palermo—but cold in the way alleys went quiet when predators passed through.
Luca walked alone.
No Matteo. No Antonio. No convoy. Just him in a black coat and gloves stained faintly from something that hadn't washed out since that one job in Sicily.
The warehouse loomed ahead. Brick, rusted metal, half-forgotten on the docks. A rat's nest for the Bratva's stateside runners. According to Oscar's latest intel, a shipment meant for Marseille had been rerouted through here, without the King's approval.
A betrayal.
A message needed to be sent.
He was above doing the King's dirty work, but when Oscar briefed Ida on this mission, he offered to go in her place. He needed to release some steam.
Ever since he took over as Don some seventeen years ago, when he was twenty, he has never gone on jobs or done the work of soldiers. He handled the politics, business, and sometimes dirtier work regarding the numbers-side of things. Occasionally, he'd be needed to extract information from tight-lipped traitors, which was bloody, gruesome work. It kept him sharp, reminding him what La Cosa Nostra really is.
A business built from blood.
Now that he'd been in New York, he needed some violence. Things were getting too political. Marseille this, Bratva that.
So he didn't knock on the door.
The first man inside didn't have time to speak—just enough to blink before Luca drove a blade straight through his throat. No sound. No hesitation. Just a precise flick of the wrist and a body slumped to the floor.
Luca exhaled. Tension visibly dropped from his shoulders.
By the time the third man realized who had entered, Luca was already disarming him with a strike to the ribs and another to the jaw. Clean. Mechanical.
He moved like music. Like punishment incarnate.
A gun cocked somewhere in the dark.
Luca turned. Fired once. The man dropped like a stone, a clean hole in his forehead. The silence afterward was reverent.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't threaten. He simply walked through the warehouse, making his way to the office upstairs where the local handler—Makarov—was said to be hiding.
The door burst open with a kick.
Makarov jolted up from behind the desk, gun drawn. Luca didn't flinch. He ducked the shot, drew his own weapon, and fired through the man's hand before crossing the room and slamming his head into the wall hard enough to crack plaster.
