*EDITING*
REWRITTEN CHAPTERS ARE RELEASING DAILY
"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 sh...
-"We're only haunted by the things we refuse to accept."-
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It started with the coin.
A single, heavy gold coin spinning across a blood-slicked table. The sound was delicate, almost melodic. It spun and spun until it clattered flat against the surface, wobbling once—then stilled.
Silence.
Luca stood still in the low light of the warehouse, backlit by a single overhead bulb that hummed like it feared him too. His height made the shadows stretch wide; his shoulders blocked the only light. A specter of flesh and vengeance. His suit was ruined—black silk stained crimson at the sleeves, a splash of arterial spray marked across his collar like war paint. One of his rings had been cracked. The man responsible was now choking on his own teeth in the corner.
The rest of the room stayed frozen. Four enemies—rivals turned cowards—watched from their knees as one of their own writhed. None of them spoke. One had already pissed himself. The scent of it mixed with the copper tang of blood and fear.
Luca's face didn't move. Didn't twitch. He took one slow step forward.
"I left a message in Brooklyn," he said, his voice graveled silk. "I carved it into a man's chest. Do you want to know what it was?"
No one answered.
"It was a coin." He crouched next to the man on the floor. "You brought this on yourself. All of you did."
The man gurgled. His lip trembled. "P-please... I have a family—"
Luca tilted his head.
"And how will I tell them that you weren't thinking of them when you made this decision?" Luca's head tilted.
And then, without hesitation, he pulled the coin from his pocket.
"Il Giudice," one of the men whispered hoarsely. "Goldblood..."
Luca looked at him. Just looked—expression unreadable, stormy eyes glinting with something older than rage. Then he flicked his wrist.
The coin spun into the air with a faint whirr, catching the low firelight as it twisted. It arced once—twice—and landed with a soft clink onto the man's bare chest, just above the navel. The man's eyes widened. He began to cry—not whimper, not plead—but cry. Wet, panicked sobs tore from his throat, and his legs buckled beneath him.
Luca stepped forward and shoved him to the ground with a single hand to the chest, heavy and unyielding. The man landed hard, dust kicking up as his back hit the cold stone floor. He writhed, tried to turn, to crawl, to get away.
"Hold him down," Luca ordered, voice low and steel-flat, jerking his chin once.
Like shadows slithering from the dark, Matteo and Antonio emerged from their corners. They moved without hesitation, like they'd done it a hundred times before. Matteo crushed the man's right shoulder under the ball of his boot, grinding it until the man screamed. Antonio knelt, driving his knee into the other shoulder, locking him in place.
