In other deep valley, far from the noise of the city, there was a large old house. Inside, in a dimly lit room, a man sat alone. He was in his late forties, dressed in a sharp black suit. The suit was neat, but his face told another story — hard lines carved by years of blood, smoke, and power. His hair, once black, now showed streaks of gray, combed back neatly. A scar cut across his jaw, a reminder of a fight long past. His eyes were sharp, dark, and cold, like a predator that never blinks.
He sat in a leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. He smoked without hurry, each drag filling the room with the thick smell of tobacco. His presence was heavy, the kind that made even silence feel dangerous.
The door opened. Another man stepped in — younger, his son. He had the same sharp jaw but his smile was crueler, sharper. He smirked as he walked closer, his shoes clicking on the wooden floor.
"Son," the older man said, his deep voice carrying both pride and warning. "You are back."
"Of course, Father," the young man replied, sitting beside him. "I told you… he is blind. He can't tell the devil from the saint." He laughed softly, as if mocking someone only they knew.
The older man blew out smoke and gave a slow nod. "I heard he is keeping a girl captive."
The son leaned back, still smirking. "Yes… and that girl will be his weakness. He doesn't see it yet. But I do. She will be the end of him."
The father's eyes narrowed, cold and thoughtful. "And he is looking for me, isn't he?"
"Yes," the young man said. "And if he finds you… trust me, he won't let you live."
The older man chuckled low, a sound without warmth. "That's why he won't find me first. We will strike before he even knows where to look. Kill him clean, and kill him fast."
The son's smirk widened, eyes gleaming with dark excitement. "And if he dares to come here?"
The father put out his cigarette slowly in the ashtray, his movements calm but final. "Then he dies here."
The room went silent. Smoke hung heavy in the air, mixing with the tension between father and son. Both of them knew — this was no longer talk. It was a promise.
---
Back to Luca
Inside Luca's hood, the air was heavy with smoke and whispers. Luca sat at the head of the long wooden table, his cold eyes scanning the faces of the men loyal to him. Every man in the room carried the weight of blood on his hands, but none dared to breathe too loud in Luca's presence.
Beside him stood Mike, one of his most trusted men. He leaned forward, a cruel smirk on his lips, and spoke.
"The fool is back in the country," Mike said.
Luca tilted his head slightly, running his fingers lazily over the blade of a knife. "Really? I thought he was smarter. Turns out he's just another dumb bastard who wandered into a bloody world he doesn't belong in."
Mike chuckled.
Luca playing with his own knife. "Too easy to track. Too easy to kill."
Just then, two men dragged someone inside — a stranger, beaten and bound, his lip split and his eyes wide. One of Luca's men spoke.
"He came with a message, boss."
Luca raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. "A message?" His voice was calm, almost amused. "Speak."
The man smirked at first, forcing courage into his trembling body. "He said you should be careful… he's close. He will strike first."
The room went silent.
Luca rose slowly to his feet, the knife spinning easily in his hand. He walked toward the man, and with every step, the messenger's confidence drained away. His smirk faded into shaking lips. His body trembled. Luca could see the fear flooding into his eyes — and he loved it.
"I enjoy watching fear eat through a man, fear is more sweeter than death," Luca whispered, circling him like a predator. "But don't worry… I'm not wicked. I'll let you go."
For a second, hope flickered across the man's face. He thought he might live.
Luca leaned in close, his lips brushing the man's ear. "Go back and tell him… I want him to strike first. I hate boring shows."
Before the messenger could even react, Luca shoved the knife deep into his throat and yanked it down in one brutal motion.
"…and I hate boring people," he finished coldly, as blood sprayed.
The man collapsed to the floor, choking and twitching, until he lay still in a pool of red. Luca stood over him, watching the last light drain from his eyes with a twisted smile.
Then he turned, knife dripping, and pointed it slowly across the room, from one man to the next.
"One of you is a traitor," he said. His voice was calm, but every word was heavy with death. "And when I find him… I'll make him beg me for death."
"Take his corpse back to the bastard " he said looking at the dead man.
His men nod and with that, Luca dropped the bloodied knife on the table and walked out.
---
Back to the Mansion
Later that night, Luca drove back to the mansion. His car purred into the driveway, sleek and black like the beast that owned it. He pushed open the doors and stepped into the grand hall, the silence of the house greeting him like an old friend.
But then, he froze. Someone was there.
"Viet?" Luca's voice was sharp, his brows knitting.
Viet stood awkwardly in the living room, bandages still wrapped around his bruised body. His face was pale, his eyes heavy with guilt.
"Why are you here?" Luca asked, his tone low as he sank into the leather chair, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled around his face as he exhaled slowly.
Viet swallowed hard. "I came to apologize. I'm sorry for what I did."
Luca let out a short, mocking laugh. "And your dumb ass thinks I need your apology?" He puffed smoke into the air, smirking. "You're even dumber than I thought."
"I—I know," Viet stammered. "But… can you please let me talk to Mia? Just once."
Luca's eyes darkened. He leaned forward, staring at Viet as though he could cut through him with his gaze alone. Then, his lips curved into a cruel smile.
"Why? So you can fuck her?" he asked coldly.
Viet shook his head quickly. "No, no! I won't. I promise. I've learned my lesson." His voice cracked with desperation.
Luca's gaze flickered to the bandages wrapped around Viet's arms and ribs — wounds he had personally given him. His smirk widened, satisfied at the reminder of his own cruelty.
"Yes… I'm sure you have." He leaned back, inhaling another drag of smoke.
"Get lost, Viet. You don't need to talk to her. And I don't need you anywhere near her."
"But—" Viet tried again, stepping forward.
Before he could finish, Luca raised a hand slightly. Immediately, one of his men appeared from the shadows, ready and waiting for orders.
"Get him out of my sight," Luca said flatly.
"Yes, boss," the man replied, grabbing Viet roughly. Despite his injuries, there was no gentleness — only force, dragging him out like trash. Viet groaned in pain but didn't resist.
"Son of a bitch," Luca muttered, spitting his cigarette onto the floor and crushing it under his shoe as if disgusted.
Then his phone buzzed. A single message flashed across the screen.
"WATCH OUT 😵"