A chair scraped hard against concrete. Chains rattled. Paulo's scream split the air—chasing Matteo's back. He never turned.
Ricci dragged the blade across Paulo's shirt in a slow wipe, crouching low.
"Wake up." His voice was low but edged like glass.
He slapped Paulo's bruised cheek twice—quick, cutting.
Paulo's body jerked. A groan escaped him, shallow and broken. His eyes fluttered, then rolled back again.
"He's not dead," Ricci said, glancing at Matteo.
Matteo didn't need confirmation. He already knew.
He stepped closer, calm as ever, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.
"Put him in the sack," he said quietly, voice stripped of any emotion.
Ricci whistled low, and two men stepped forward without question.
One dragged a heavy burlap sack from the corner, the kind used for industrial shipments.
The other pulled Paulo up by the shoulders, his limp body leaving a faint red trail behind.
Paulo groaned again, barely conscious, face swollen, lips trembling.
They shoved him in, his limbs folding like broken hinges, the rope cinching tight at the sack's throat.
A soft thud followed as they dropped it at Ricci's feet.
Matteo turned and headed out of the warehouse without a glance.
"Let's go," he said over his shoulder.
They followed.
Outside, morning light slammed into them—too bright, too clean for the filth they'd just sealed in a sack.
The car was already waiting.
Ricci popped the trunk without a word.
Together, the men hoisted the sack and dumped it in with a thud. No protest came from inside.
Matteo slid into the back seat. The door clicked shut.
"Drive," he said.
The car eased away from the alley, smooth and silent.
And the sack in the trunk didn't move.
The road wound out of Milan's beating heart and into its clogged veins—toward the city's rotting edge.
The city lights thinned, replaced by the quiet sprawl of abandoned warehouses and shuttered factories—the forgotten edge of the empire.
Inside the car, silence pressed thick.
Matteo leaned back, one hand resting on the leather seat, the other slowly flexing.
His gaze stayed fixed ahead, sharp and unreadable.
Behind them, the trunk was still.
Ricci checked the GPS once, then turned toward him. "Five minutes out."
Matteo gave no reply.
Outside the window, the streets had shifted—tighter turns, cracked pavement, graffiti-inked walls.
The kind of place the law stopped reaching.
And ahead—just visible now—an old gate.
Rusted. Barbed. Unmarked.
But anyone who knew, knew.
This was The Fox's territory.
The driver slowed, rolling toward the gate.
Two men appeared from the shadows—faces hidden, rifles cradled casually in their arms.
One tapped the window, peered inside, then gave a curt nod.
The gate opened with a screech like teeth grinding.
They were let in.
The car rolled forward—into his world now.
Into The Fox's Empire.
—Years Earlier—
Romano Villa, Sicily
The Sicilian dusk bled gold across the Romano estate, the sea breeze threading through lemon trees and worn marble.
Inside, the air was heavy—thick with grief, salt, and something darker.
Luciano Romano stood by the cold fireplace, one hand wrapped around a glass of grappa.
The liquor didn't burn nearly as much as the silence between him and the man seated opposite.
Frankie Dave.
His suit was too loud—shiny, smug, out of place for a funeral.
His sunglasses still hung from his shirt pocket, untouched, as if grief was an accessory he refused to wear.
He hadn't shed a tear.
Just stood at the grave earlier, face tight, calculating.
Luciano's voice sliced the quiet. Low, unhurried. Dangerous.
"My sister's barely in the ground, and you're already counting what she left behind?"
Frankie leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. His smile was casual, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"She was my wife. Her shares come to me. That's the law."
Luciano's grip on the glass tightened, jaw ticking.
"Don't stand in my home quoting laws you've never followed."
Frankie chuckled under his breath, adjusting his gold cufflinks.
"I'm not here for a fight, Don Romano. I'm here for what's mine."
Luciano stepped forward, slowly, the light catching the lines around his eyes—grief carved deep by rage.
"What's yours… is Victor. Nothing else. Not a single coin. Not a thread of her name."
Frankie's grin curved sharper.
"Protecting her memory… or just guarding your precious throne, Don?"
The grappa glass cracked softly in Luciano's hand, but he didn't glance down.
He said it quietly.
"I think you killed her."
Everything stilled. Even the fire had gone still in its hearth, the embers seeming to wait.
Frankie's brow arched, expression unreadable.
"That's a bold thing to say without proof."
"You didn't love her," Luciano murmured. "You used her. You broke her spirit. And when she was finally ready to leave you…"
His voice dropped further.
"She ended up dead."
Frankie stood now, close enough to smell the bitterness on Luciano's breath.
His cologne was thick—sweet, chemical, like perfume masking rot.
"And yet no evidence. No witness. Just your gut." He sneered. "That won't hold up in court. Or at dinner."
"You're already guilty," Luciano said. "You just haven't paid yet."
Footsteps padded softly nearby.
A boy, no older than five, stood half-hidden behind one of the stone columns. Barefoot. Big dark eyes. Listening.
Victor.
Luciano's gaze flicked to him, then back.
"He's all that's left of her."
Frankie didn't look. "He's mine."
Luciano's voice dropped to a whisper. "And God help him for it."
Frankie's expression changed—just a flicker. Something cold settled in his eyes.
He stepped closer, almost nose to nose, his voice like steel dipped in sugar.
"You've made an enemy tonight, Romano."
Luciano didn't blink.
"You always were."
Frankie turned and walked out, shoulders squared, not once glancing back.
The echo of the door slamming behind him lingered longer than the man ever did.
And the silence that followed?
It never left.
From that night on, bloodlines turned into battlegrounds.
And Victor—wide-eyed and silent—was left standing in the ashes of a war that wasn't his to start.
But one day… the war would find him, and it would be his to end—one way or another.
[Present – The Fox Empire, Milan]
The gates creaked open like an old secret.
Matteo stepped out, slow and composed, his long coat catching the morning breeze.
Behind him, Ricci dragged the sack—its wet fabric leaving a smear across the polished stones.
The Fox Empire stood tall and decadent, a grotesque shrine of power dressed in old Sicilian wealth.
Fox statues watched from every corner—perched on pillars, guarding doorways, even curling into the chandelier's frame.
Silent. Watching.
Inside, the air was thick with imported incense and spoiled indulgence.
Victor sprawled across the velvet couch like a forgotten heir.
Sunglasses still on, a half-empty bottle of vintage red dangling loosely from his hand.
One leg kicked up, the other lazily hooked off the couch arm.
He grinned the moment he spotted Matteo.
"Well, well," he drawled, lifting his glass. "Mio fratello… you arrive like a storm, and you brought me a gift?"
His gaze dropped to the bloodied sack.
"What is it? A dog? A dead body? Or just your leftover pride?" He chuckled, teeth wine-stained. "Come now, don't be shy. Let's open it together—like old times."
Matteo didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
He moved without a word—crossing the room with surgical grace.
Victor's grin faltered, just for a second.
Then Matteo crouched beside the sack, loosened the knot, and peeled it back.
Victor leaned forward with idle curiosity, lips parting—
A flash.
The pistol was out, a whisper of metal, a sudden crack—
Blood sprayed upward in a jagged arc, warm drops pattering against marble.
The echo rolled through the marble walls.
Victor shrieked and scrambled back, knocking over the wine.
He nearly tripped over his own legs as he leapt onto the couch like some pampered hyena startled from a feast.
"Madonna mia—sei impazzito?!" he barked, clutching his chest. (Are you crazy?!)
But Matteo didn't answer.
He rose slowly, wiped the barrel with his sleeve, and slid the gun back beneath his coat.
Victor peeked behind the couch cushion like it might save him. "That was... that was Paulo, wasn't it? You actually—?"
"You talk too much," Matteo said, voice dry as bone.
Victor shut his mouth, eyes wide, lips trembling like he wanted to ask more—but his spine lacked the courage.
The fox statues around them seemed to lean in.
And Matteo… he didn't even spare them a glance.
Matteo turned slowly, the blood still drying on his gloves.
His eyes settled on Victor, unblinking.
"Where's Frankie?"
Victor blinked behind his sunglasses, shifting on the couch like it suddenly grew thorns.
"Dad?" He hummed, tapping his wine glass as if trying to jog his memory. "Let me think…"
Matteo said nothing. Just waited.
Victor scratched the back of his neck. "I think he was in Paris last week. Or was it the Netherlands?"
He squinted toward the ceiling, lips moving as if counting.
"Oh! No, no—I heard someone say he was in the U.S. yesterday. Maybe Miami? Or... Vegas?"
Click.
Matteo raised the pistol again. Calm. Precise.
Victor froze. The grin drained from his face like wine spilled across silk.
"Okay—okay!" he blurted, hands up, shaking. "He's in China. Beijing. Business deal or some black-tie auction—something loud and shady, you know how he is."
Matteo didn't lower the gun. Not right away.
"I—I didn't say anything, fratello—"
"You never do," Matteo cut in, holstering the pistol. "Just let your tongue wander 'til someone else bleeds for it."
Victor swallowed, his chest rising too fast for the room's stillness. "You know I wouldn't lie to you," he said, voice thinner now. "Come on, big bro, I'm a talker, not a traitor."
The room pulsed in silence.
Then, finally, Matteo lowered the weapon.
Victor let out a wheeze of a breath and slumped like his bones had given up.
"China," Matteo muttered. "Then I'll go to China."
He turned his back to Victor like he didn't exist anymore.
Victor didn't dare move. Not until Matteo's footsteps faded, swallowed by the silent foxes—stone predators that would watch him long after his brother was gone.