*****Luca's Bloody Hunt****
The night was cold. The streets of Naples were almost empty, but the silence was never real. In Luca's world, silence only meant danger hiding in the shadows.
He stepped out of his black car, cigarette between his lips, knife tucked at his belt, and two guns strapped under his jacket. His men followed, but he didn't need them. When it came to blood, Luca preferred to do it himself.
The warehouse stood at the edge of the harbor, old and half-broken, but alive with sound. Music, laughter, shouts—the sound of men who thought they were untouchable.
Luca smirked. Fools.
He pushed the heavy doors open. Inside, about twenty men sat drinking, smoking, gambling. Women moved between them, serving whiskey, rubbing against their laps. It was a party, and none of them noticed death had just walked in.
One man finally looked up. His smile faded.
"Luca Romano…" he whispered.
The room went silent.
Luca took one slow drag from his cigarette, flicked the ash on the ground, then spoke. His voice was calm, but it carried like thunder.
"Which one of you fuckers touched my family's business?"
No one answered.
He smiled. "Fine. Then you all die the same."
Before the men could grab their guns, Luca had already drawn his. Two quick shots—two heads down. Blood splattered across the gambling table, cards soaking red. Panic broke out. Some ran for cover, others grabbed their weapons.
Luca didn't hide. He walked straight into the storm, shooting with precision. Each bullet found a chest, a skull, a throat. He moved like he was dancing with death, each step smooth, each shot perfect.
His men joined in, but they barely needed to. Luca was the storm himself.
When his bullets ran out, he didn't reload. He wanted it personal now. He pulled the knife from his belt, the blade glinting under the dim light.
One man, shaking, tried to crawl away. Luca caught him by the collar and dragged him back, pressing the knife against his throat.
"You thought you could sell my sister like cattle?" Luca hissed. His eyes burned with rage.
"P-please… it wasn't me, it was—"
The knife slit through his neck before he could finish. Blood sprayed across Luca's face, but he didn't even blink.
Another man charged him with a bat. Luca ducked, stabbed him in the stomach, and twisted the blade upward, tearing flesh. The man screamed until his lungs gave out.
By the time it was over, the warehouse was silent again—only the sound of blood dripping on the floor, bodies twitching, and Luca's heavy breathing.
Fifteen men lay dead. Four more were dying slowly, crawling in their own blood. Luca crouched beside one of them, grabbed his hair, and forced his head back.
"Who killed her?" he asked softly.
The man coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. "Y-you'll never… find him…"
Luca's lips curved into a cold smile. "Wrong answer."
He shoved the knife into the man's mouth and ripped it sideways. The gurgling scream echoed, then ended in silence.
He stood, wiping the blood on his shirt, his chest rising and falling, eyes dark as the night itself. His men stared at him, some terrified, some in awe.
"Burn it all," Luca ordered. "No one leaves a message except me."
As they set fire to the warehouse, Luca stepped out into the night, lighting another cigarette. Behind him, flames roared, eating bodies and wood alike.
For a second, he closed his eyes and whispered to himself, almost like a prayer:
"For you. I'll kill them all."
When he opened his eyes again, there was nothing human in them—only fire and blood.
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*******Mattheo at Luca's Mansion*******
Mattheo drove up to Luca's mansion with the small key clutched tight in his hand. Luca had given it to him before leaving, his words cold and sharp: "Take care of Mia. Don't let her escape."
It wasn't a request. It was an order.
The guards at the gate let him in immediately, their eyes lowered, no one daring to speak. Mattheo could feel it in the air—this house wasn't a home, it was a cage. The silence pressed against his ears as he climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last.
At the end of the hallway, he stopped. He knew this was her room. He slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.
The sight inside made his chest ache.
Mia was on the bed, sitting close to the wall like she was trying to disappear into it. Her skin looked pale, her lips cracked, and her eyes swollen from endless crying. Around her ankle was the iron cuff—tight, heavy, cutting into her skin until it was red and raw. The chain dragged across the floor, clinking faintly with her every tiny movement.
Her head jerked up when she heard the door. She froze when she saw him, her whole body trembling. Her lips parted, and her voice came out shaky, almost broken.
"P-please… I… I don't want this anymore. I can't…"
The words weren't for him, not really. They were just spilling out, like the sound of someone too tired to fight.
Mattheo's jaw clenched. He moved closer, kneeling in front of her. "Mia." His voice was low but steady. "It's me. Not him."
She flinched when his hand reached for her ankle, but he didn't stop. He slid the key into the lock. A sharp click echoed in the room, and the chain fell away, landing on the floor with a heavy thud.
Mia's eyes widened. She quickly pulled her leg to herself, rubbing at the bruised skin, still shaking as if she thought the metal might come back at any moment.
Mattheo picked the chain up and tossed it aside with disgust. "You won't wear that again. Not while I'm here."
He straightened and looked at her, his voice firm. "You're coming with me. You won't stay in this place another night."
Mia's head lifted slowly, her eyes wide with confusion. Her lips trembled before she whispered, "Why? Why… are you taking me?"
The way she asked broke him. She wasn't hopeful—she was scared, too used to pain to believe anyone would ever help her.
Mattheo crouched again, his eyes holding hers. "Because you don't deserve this. Because you've suffered enough. And because I can't leave you here—not with him."
Tears slipped down her cheeks. She didn't argue, but she didn't move either. Her hands gripped the blanket so tight her knuckles turned white.
Mattheo sighed and slipped off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders. His voice softened. "You don't have to trust me now. Just… let me get you out of here."
Mia stayed quiet, trembling under the jacket. But when he extended his hand to her, she stared at it for a long, shaky moment—then slowly placed her small hand in his.
Mattheo tightened his grip gently, steady and protective. He pulled her up from the bed.
And as he led her out of the room, the clink of the fallen chain still echoed behind them—a sound that reminded him of what his brother had done, and what he swore he'd never allow again.
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