"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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The rain started minutes after the door swallowed her.
Luca hadn't moved from the edge of the alley.
Something about the moment clung to him like damp silk. The way her voice had wrapped around his name. The way she'd vanished like smoke into the very arena he'd just walked out of, as if she were part of it. A ghost of it. The thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
Antonio rolled down the passenger window of the black sedan, his voice low and taut.
"You good?"
Luca didn't answer right away. The rain blurred the pavement and smeared the shadows into shapes. He blinked them away and turned, sliding into the back seat without a word. The door clicked shut.
Matteo watched him through the rearview mirror. "That woman. Who was she?"
Luca leaned back against the seat, his jaw locked. "I don't know."
But he knew he was lying. Not to them. To himself. Because in his gut, he felt it:
She was important. Somehow. And not in the way beautiful things usually were.
She knew his name.'
Back in the penthouse, Luca peeled the blazer from his shoulders, the blood-stained bandage still tight across his palm.
He stared at it. The cut had started to close, but the sting still lingered. Blade's blood on his skin. An oath signed in red under false pretenses. He should have felt satisfaction. Instead, he felt the pressure.
Six months. That's what he'd asked for. Six months to get close. To see the King's operation from the inside. To map the architecture of power before burning it to the ground.
But the woman in the alley complicated that. He didn't like complications.
He walked to the bar cart, poured whiskey into a crystal glass, and stared out the wall of windows into the abyss of the New York skyline.
The city had never felt so quiet.
He took a slow sip.
The penthouse stretched over the top floor like a throne—black glass walls, steel-framed ceilings, and floors polished to a mirror-like gleam. He hadn't decorated it, didn't need to. The place was already dripping with wealth and silence.
Months ago, he bought it under a shell company registered to a Latvian shipping conglomerate. No one traced it back to him, and no one asked questions because this was the King's building. And discretion wasn't requested in the King's city—it was expected.
Gold door handles shaped into a single, slanted K marked every private suite.
Luca dropped his coat, rolled up his sleeve to check the stitched wound on his palm, and ignored the call buzzing on his nightstand. He recognized the number—Antonio.
