"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...
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The room was already tense before Luca Romano-Xanthos stepped inside.
To the world, he was Luca Romano. But in the underworld—the real world—he was known by many names.
Il Re Fantasma.
Goldblood.
Il Giudice.
The Ghost King. For his ability to vanish, strike, and leave no trail.
Goldblood. For the wealth, legacy, and ice-cold ruthlessness in his veins.
And The Judge. Because when Luca made a decision, it was final. There were no appeals. Only bodies.
He hadn't asked for those names. He had earned them.
It was a cold sort of tension—the kind that choked the air and curled at the back of the throat. The kind born not just from fear, but from betrayal. No one in that room trusted silence anymore.
A long, polished mahogany table stretched the length of the chamber, surrounded by his most powerful capos and trusted lieutenants—cousins, allies, enforcers. The walls were lined with blacked-out windows and oil paintings of their ancestors—men who once ruled Sicily with iron fists and bloody hands. Above them all, a gold emblem of La Cosa Nostra's crest gleamed in the overhead light.
Luca walked in without a word.
Every man in the room stood.
"Sit," he ordered, his voice even. Controlled. Deadly.
Matteo Costa and Antonio Regio followed him in, taking their usual seats to his right and left. Across the table, murmurs rose from the others. Whispers about the news. About what the King had done.
Matteo laid a file down in front of Luca. Inside were high-res satellite photos, intercepted communications, and a thick stack of coded dispatches translated and broken by their best cryptographers. Every detail was precise. Clean. Dangerous.
The King's insignia had appeared on Sicilian soil.
Not just one outpost. Multiple. Quiet ships docking in Palermo's port. Unfamiliar faces show up on surveillance. Black-and-gold markings stenciled on weapons crates hidden among aid shipments.
It had started as a rumor. Then a ripple. Now it was undeniable.
The King was moving.
And he was moving in their waters.
Luca's fingers tapped once against the table.
"Confirmation came in this morning," Matteo said. "We traced a supply chain from Marseille through Sardinia—now it's in Palermo. King-backed smugglers under shell corporations. Soldiers dressed as civilians. All running silent."
