The stench of gunpowder filled the air. The sound of broken glass echoed through the grand office, once a symbol of power, now a graveyard of betrayal. Blood pooled beneath the Italian marble table—his blood.
Luciano De Luca coughed, tasting iron. His once pristine white shirt was now soaked crimson, sticking to his skin as if mocking his fall from the top.
Standing before him was the man he trusted more than anyone—Giovanni Costa, his right-hand man for over a decade. The same man who had sworn loyalty in front of their ancestors, who had raised glasses in his name, and now... pointed a gun to his head.
"You should've seen it coming, boss," Giovanni sneered, twirling the silver pistol. "You trusted too easily. You forgot—this world has no friends. Only survivors."
Luciano's vision blurred. His knees buckled. His mind raced.
Enzo—his cousin—had sided with the rivals. Petrov—the Russian snake—had orchestrated the financial ambush. The billions he built, the empire he controlled, the name he carried... crumbled in the span of a single night.
All because he believed loyalty still existed.
"Any last words?" Giovanni's grin widened.
Luciano chuckled bitterly, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. "Yeah... Go to hell."
The gun fired. Darkness swallowed him whole.
Silence.
Nothingness.
---
Ding...
A sharp noise echoed in the void.
Then... warmth. Not the suffocating heat of hell he expected, but the gentle warmth of sunlight.
Luciano gasped—air filling his lungs. His eyes shot open.
A familiar ceiling greeted him. Cream-colored with a slight water stain in the corner. The sound of distant traffic. The faint scent of espresso from the café downstairs. His old penthouse... the one he sold nearly a decade ago.
He sat up abruptly, heart pounding. His hands trembled—not from fear, but disbelief.
His hands—no scars, no gunshot wounds. Smooth. Unmarked. Younger.
Stumbling toward the mirror, he stared at his reflection.
No graying streak in his hair. No crow's feet. Just sharp, cold, storm-grey eyes, tousled black hair, and the youthful face of a man in his early twenties.
His gaze darted to the wall clock—an old analog piece with a crack on the glass.
June 17th, 2015.
Luciano staggered back. "No... This... This was the day everything started."
The day his father was still alive. The day the first domino in his downfall was tipped.
A vibrating buzz snapped him out of his shock. He grabbed his phone—an ancient model he hadn't held in years.
[Incoming Call: Father]
His throat tightened. His father—Don Matteo De Luca—the former head of the De Luca family. The man whose death forced Luciano into power far earlier than planned. A father he buried with his own hands.
Luciano swallowed hard and answered.
"Luciano," came the deep, commanding voice from the other end. "You're late. We have business at the estate. Get down here. Now."
For a moment, Luciano couldn't respond. His lips parted, but no sound escaped.
"Luciano?" his father's tone sharpened. "Is something wrong?"
Luciano closed his eyes, breathing deep. This wasn't a dream. The coldness, the heartbeat, the vibration of the phone in his palm—it was all real.
A slow grin curled his lips. Cold. Dangerous. Calculating.
"Nothing's wrong, Father," he said, voice laced with steel. "On my way."
---
As he dressed, muscle memory took over. Tailored black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and his favorite leather jacket from years past.
But unlike before, this time... he wasn't a naive young heir fumbling in his father's shadow.
He was a man who had ruled, killed, conquered, and been betrayed.
This time, he was the nightmare that would haunt those who wronged him.
Luciano walked toward his desk and pulled open the drawer. His fingers brushed against the cold steel of a Glock 19. He remembered buying it but never used it then. This time, it wouldn't stay clean.
---
Downstairs, his silver Maserati purred as it roared to life. As he drove through the streets of Palermo, memories flooded his mind—people who smiled to his face but stabbed his back. Deals that seemed innocent but were traps. Friendships that were nothing more than leashes.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
But amidst the haze of vengeance, a face surfaced in his mind. Soft brown eyes. A gentle smile.
Ariana Russo.
In his first life, she was barely a blip on his radar. A quiet analyst in one of his companies. Overlooked. Invisible. But now he remembered... snippets.
The way she defended him in a board meeting when no one thought he was listening.
The tear-streaked face at his funeral—hidden in the back, unnoticed by all.
"I ignored you... but not this time."
---
The De Luca family estate loomed ahead. Massive iron gates opened automatically, revealing marble fountains, manicured gardens, and armed guards.
Stepping out, Luciano was greeted by the sight of men in tailored suits and grim expressions. Men who, in time, would betray or die for him.
And there... standing tall in a tailored grey suit, was Don Matteo De Luca.
"Luciano," his father greeted, voice gruff but proud. "Took you long enough."
Luciano stared—really stared—at the man. Broad shoulders. Silver hair neatly combed back. Eyes that held both love and ruthlessness.
His father was alive. Breathing. Solid.
For a brief moment, the cold facade cracked.
"Father..." Luciano stepped forward and hugged him—a move that startled the older man.
"Since when did my son get sentimental?" Don Matteo chuckled, patting his back.
Luciano pulled back, mask back in place. "Got tired of regrets."
Matteo raised a brow but said nothing, motioning for him to follow.
As they walked toward the grand hall, Luciano's gaze scanned the estate. Every face. Every corner. His mind ran simulations—who would betray, who would die, and who could be saved.
> This time, the game changes.
He wouldn't wait for betrayal. He would strike first. Fortify the empire. Expand it beyond anyone's imagination. And perhaps... find the one thing he never had—love.
---
But fate wasn't going to make it easy.
As the doors opened, a young man stepped forward—a face Luciano knew all too well.
Giovanni Costa.
Smiling. Friendly. Innocent.
For now.
"Boss," Giovanni greeted with a handshake. "Pleasure as always."
Luciano's lips curved into a sharp smile. His grip tightened around Giovanni's hand—just a little harder than normal. Enough to send a message.
"The pleasure's mine… while it lasts."