A Devil's Vow
The night was still burning when dawn broke.
Ash hung in the sky over the Moretti estate, smoke twisting upward like ghosts. The mansion's east wing was a blackened ruin. Blood still stained the marble floors, a silent reminder of the war that had breached their home.
Lucian sat at the long dining table, the remnants of his empire's command gathered around him. Maps stretched across the wood, red circles marking Dante's strongholds—docks, clubs, warehouses. His men looked weary, battered from the siege, but their eyes burned with loyalty as they waited for orders.
Lucian stood, bandage darkened with blood at his shoulder, his expression carved from iron.
"We don't wait for his next strike," he said, voice deep, unyielding. "We take the fight to him. Tonight, his docks. Tomorrow, his clubs. By the end of this week, Dante Marino will have nowhere to stand but in his grave."
The men murmured, some nodding, some pale at the scope of the war. Alessandro leaned forward. "Boss, his network is vast. He'll see us coming."
Lucian's eyes narrowed. "Then we make sure he doesn't live long enough to stop us."
His hand slammed onto the map. "Every soldier, every bullet, every ally—we use them all. Dante chose this war. Now I'll end it."
The room echoed with assent, fists pounding the table. They saw in Lucian not just a man, but a king prepared to burn the world to protect his crown.
But at the edge of the doorway, Elena stood silent, unseen. Her arms wrapped around herself, her heart sinking lower with every word.
This wasn't strategy. This was fury, bloodlust. And it was consuming him.
---
Later, in their bedroom, Elena found him stripping off his shirt, the lamplight painting his scars in shadow. She approached quietly, her voice soft.
"You shouldn't be moving that much. Your wound—"
"It's nothing." He tied a fresh bandage over his shoulder, jaw tight. "I've had worse."
She stepped closer, her hands trembling as she touched his arm. "Lucian… what happened tonight—Carlo, the attack—it was horrible, but…" Her throat tightened. "Don't let it destroy you."
He looked at her then, his eyes sharp, unreadable.
"Destroy me? Elena, this is who I am. This is the world you chose to love me in. Men like me don't get to be soft. We don't get to hesitate. Because if we do…" His voice broke, low and raw. "I lose you. I lose her."
He gestured toward the adjoining room, where Isabella slept under heavy blankets.
Elena's heart cracked. She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You won't lose us. Not if you remember you're more than this war. Please, Lucian. I don't want Isabella growing up thinking her father is only blood and bullets."
His hand closed over hers, rough and trembling. For a moment, his mask slipped. The ruthless Don vanished, and only the man remained—the man who had nearly collapsed when he saw them alive, the man who whispered promises against her skin in the dark.
But then the mask returned.
"She deserves to grow up safe. And the only way I can give her that is if Dante is dead." His grip tightened, his eyes blazing. "I won't stop until he's gone. Do you understand, Elena? This isn't obsession. It's necessity."
Tears blurred her vision. She wanted to fight him, scream at him, beg him to choose them over vengeance. But deep down, she knew—he believed this was choosing them.
And nothing she said would sway him.
---
That night, Elena couldn't sleep. She sat by Isabella's bedside, stroking her daughter's hair as nightmares flickered across her small face. Outside, the estate was alive with movement—trucks loading weapons, men readying for war.
She thought of the gun in her hands, the smoke in her lungs, Carlo's blood staining the floor.
She thought of Lucian's eyes—how they glowed like embers when he vowed to burn Dante's empire to the ground.
And a chilling realization crept over her heart.
If this war didn't kill Lucian's body… it would kill his soul.
---
Lucian stood alone in his study, staring out at the smoking horizon. Whiskey sat untouched on the desk. His reflection in the glass looked like a stranger—bloodstained, haunted, eyes burning with a promise no man could keep without losing pieces of himself.
He spoke into the silence, his voice a vow whispered to the night.
"Dante Marino… you came into my home. You touched what's mine. For that, I'll give you no grave, no peace. I'll scatter your empire to the wind. And when you're on your knees begging for death… I'll take everything from you, the way you tried to take everything from me."
His hand curled into a fist, knuckles white.
"This isn't revenge. This is survival. And I'll burn in hell before I let you win."
---
At dawn, Elena found him still standing there, eyes bloodshot, body rigid. She slipped her hand into his, her voice barely a whisper.
"You're not alone, Lucian. Don't forget that."
He squeezed her hand once, hard, before releasing it. His gaze stayed on the horizon.
"I can't afford to forget. Not anymore."