Chapter One: Smoke & Silver
The rain fell like ash.
It was one of those nights when Verona buried its sins. Heavy clouds hung low over crooked rooftops, swallowing the stars whole. In the distance, the toll of midnight bells rang out like a warning. In an alley behind the Rosso Blu nightclub, Luna Moretti lit a cigarette with trembling hands.
She couldn't stand the taste of tobacco. But it gave her something to focus on while waiting for blood to dry.
At her feet lay a man, crumpled, his throat opened like a ripped envelope. She felt no remorse. That part of her—remorse, softness, fear—had been burned away years ago, along with the childhood home she'd fled in flames. His name didn't matter. What mattered was the DeLuca crest tattooed behind his ear.
And DeLuca meant war.
Luna exhaled smoke, trying to ignore her reflection—blood-smeared cheekbones, mascara like bruises under her eyes, lips that wouldn't stop trembling. She'd learned not to look too closely. The woman staring back wasn't the girl her parents had raised.
That girl had died at eleven.
"You're getting sloppy," a voice said behind her.
Luna didn't flinch. She knew that voice, along with the crunch of heels on gravel and the faint scrape of a blade being sheathed.
"Elena," Luna said softly, not turning. "If you're here to lecture me, save it. He was following me."
"I know. He was one of Silvano's."
At the mention of that name, Luna felt her stomach twist.
Silvano Vitale. The true monster pulling the strings. The one behind the massacre that wiped out her family. A traitor in the supernatural realm, a former wolf who had abandoned his nature for something worse, something that defied the moon's laws.
"Then he's one less problem," Luna said flatly.
Elena stepped closer, gazing at the body. Her expression was unreadable, framed by sharp black waves of hair, her skin like old porcelain—beautiful yet terrifying. She was the witch who had taken Luna in, trained her, loved her like a daughter... but always reminded her of what she truly was.
"Luna... this war with the DeLucas isn't just about revenge. There are things you don't know."
"I know enough," Luna snapped.
"You don't," Elena replied calmly. "You think the DeLuca heir will be another target. But Dominic isn't just a mafioso. He's Alpha. And he's cursed."
Luna's heart raced a bit faster, but she hated that it did.
"I don't care what he is."
"You will."
Elena locked eyes with her, and Luna saw something rare in her gaze—pity.
"You don't know what it means to love a man like him. You have no idea what it'll cost you."
Luna's laugh was brittle, like ice cracking. "Who said anything about love?"
The city was alive with secrets.
Verona was all about marble and menace. It wore its beauty like a mask, concealing the decay underneath. By day, tourists snapped photos under Juliet's balcony. By night, blood flowed through the gutters of the old quarters, wolves in tuxedos, witches in heels, dealers in leather gloves.
Luna knew every shadow by name.
She didn't go home after the kill. Instead, she took a detour past Via delle Ombre, where the brothels never closed, and the cathedral steps where sinners lit candles and sought forgiveness. She walked until her feet ached, until her body calmed, until her breathing synced with the rhythm of her lies.
Then she paused.
A sleek black car was parked where it shouldn't have been. The license plate didn't match any of the known families.
And yet…
The feeling in her chest wasn't fear. It was something colder. More primal.
Her phone buzzed once. Elena.
"Luna. Get off the street. They're moving tonight."
She didn't budge.
The car door swung open.
From the driver's side, a man emerged. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Luna felt his presence ripple down her spine like a whisper from the moon.
He was tall, dressed in a sharp suit, hands clasped behind his back. No weapon in sight, but one wasn't necessary.
And though she'd never met him, she knew.
Dominic DeLuca.
The air shifted around them.
He didn't match the stories. He was worse—haunted, violent, disturbingly beautiful. His jaw was clenched, as though every word would cost him blood. She couldn't make out the color of his eyes from this distance, but they lacked warmth.
He regarded her like a wolf sizing up a threat.
Or a mate.
"Signorina Moretti," he said. "You've been busy."
Luna's lips parted. "Stalking me now? That's charming."
He took a step closer. "You killed one of mine tonight."
She shrugged. "He drew first."
"You're a liar."
"You're a DeLuca."
He smiled, devoid of warmth. "Touché."
The silence hung like electricity, tense and charged. Her heart raced. She could smell him, faintly animalistic—spice and storm. The tales were true; he wasn't entirely human. The beast within him stirred beneath the cool facade.
"I'm not here to fight you," Dominic finally said. "Not yet."
"Then why are you here?"
He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes.
"To warn you."
"Of what?"
He smiled again, this time slower, darker.
"Of what happens when you keep playing with fire and forget you're made of gasoline."
Before she could respond, before she could process how his words made her knees weak and her rage flare, she spotted it.
The mark.
Just beneath his collarbone, peeking through his open shirt, an ancient sigil. The same one her mother used to whisper about. The one tied to the prophecy.
The one that could destroy her… or save her.
She stood frozen. Something in her blood howled.
But just as she was about to speak, gunshots rang out down the street.
Pop. Pop-pop.
Chaos crashed over them like a wave.
Dominic lunged, grabbing her arm and pulling her behind the parked car just as bullets pelted the wall where she'd stood. She hit the ground hard, her knees scraping against the stone, her ears ringing.
His body shielded hers. Protecting her. Guarding her.
"What the hell is this?" she hissed.
"They followed me," he growled. "Not you."
"Bullshit."
"Shut up and stay down."
More shots. Tires screeched. Someone shouted in Italian. Another body fell nearby.
Luna's heartbeat was chaos.
Dominic's hand remained on her arm, tight, possessive, hot.
When she looked up at him, their faces just inches apart, the wolf in his eyes was wide awake.
He regarded her like she belonged to him.
And then—
A voice echoed down the street, deep, cruel, and unmistakable.
"Bring me the girl."
Silvano.
He was here.