The night inside Il Sogno Nero moved like smoke soft at first, curling around the senses, before it choked you. Luca sat at the Moretti table, its polished surface reflecting the light of candles burning low. He was surrounded by men whose hands had pulled triggers and women whose smiles had bought silence. His every word, his every glance, had weight now.
Dante Moretti lounged at the head of the table, wine glass in hand, a king among wolves. His suit was midnight silk, the cut sharp, his shirt collar open just enough to hint at the scar tracing down the line of his chest. He looked carved for sin. Every eye in the room turned to him before anyone dared speak.
Luca understood quickly: Dante was not merely feared. He was desired.
The bottle was refilled, glasses raised, but no one touched theirs until Dante took a sip. When he finally did, his gaze cut to Luca.
"You told me something dangerous tonight," Dante said, his voice low enough that only the table caught it. "Something that could mean war. You have not yet convinced me you're worth keeping alive."
The men at the table chuckled, though the sound was sharp and humorless.
Luca picked up his glass. His hands were steady, though his chest felt like a drum. He leaned back in his chair and met Dante's eyes head-on. "If I weren't worth keeping alive, I wouldn't be sitting here. I'd already be floating in the river."
A pause. One of the older capos smirked, murmuring something in Italian that made the table laugh louder. Dante didn't laugh. He only studied Luca with those unblinking eyes that burned through pretense.
"You are bold," Dante said finally. "Boldness can win kingdoms. It can also get a man buried."
The words wrapped around Luca's throat like a noose, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he raised his glass in a small toast. "Then let's see if I drown in wine before blood."
The tension broke with a ripple of laughter. Even Dante's lips curved slightly, though it was a smile that promised danger more than mercy.
Later, when the revelry shifted toward the dance floor and the music grew louder, Dante beckoned Luca with a tilt of his hand. The signal was subtle, but Luca felt the weight of it press against his chest. He followed Dante up a staircase draped in velvet ropes and guarded by two men who stepped aside the moment their boss appeared.
The hallway upstairs was quieter, the bass of the music thrumming through the walls like a heartbeat. Dante opened a door without looking back, leaving it wide for Luca to enter.
The room was not an office, though. It was a sanctuary of luxury. Velvet curtains, a bed draped in black silk, shelves lined with bottles older than Luca. The air smelled faintly of cedar and smoke.
Dante closed the door, the click echoing louder than the music below. He moved with the kind of slow certainty that came from knowing every person in the city either wanted him or feared him. He stopped close enough that Luca could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the scar hidden beneath the shadow of his shirt.
"You intrigue me," Dante said, voice soft but sharp as glass. "But intrigue is not enough."
Luca's throat tightened. "What is enough?"
Dante tilted his head, studying him. "Truth. Loyalty. And sometimes…" His hand lifted, brushing Luca's chin, tilting it up slightly. "…the willingness to bleed."
Luca's breath caught, not from fear but from something far more dangerous. Dante's presence was suffocating, intoxicating. It wasn't only power that radiated from him. It was hunger.
Dante's eyes lingered on Luca's lips. "Tell me why I should keep you alive."
Every instinct screamed at Luca to lie, but he forced himself into stillness, choosing carefully. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I know how your enemies breathe. I know what they whisper when they think you aren't listening. And because…" He dared a step closer, his body brushing Dante's. "…because you want to know if you can break me before you use me."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Dante's fingers tightened against Luca's jaw. His smile was slow, deliberate. "You are clever. Dangerous, even. But clever men burn faster than fools."
Without warning, Dante pulled a knife from his jacket and pressed the blade gently against Luca's chest, right over his heart. The touch was not deep, but the chill of steel against skin made Luca's breath catch.
"Every man in my world," Dante murmured, "is tested with blood. Show me you are not afraid."
Luca didn't flinch. He kept his gaze locked on Dante's, though his pulse thundered so loud he thought it would break through his ribs. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand and pressed it over Dante's, pushing the blade just enough to break skin.
A thin line of blood welled through his shirt.
Dante's eyes darkened, a flicker of something feral sparking there. He withdrew the knife, wiped it clean with a silk handkerchief, and tucked it away again.
"You'll do," Dante said. His voice was almost soft. "For now."
Then he leaned in and pressed his lips against the cut through the fabric, tasting the blood that had risen there. The touch was not gentle. It was a claim.
Luca closed his eyes. He knew in that moment he had crossed a boundary he could never retreat from.
Dante pulled back, his mouth curling into that dangerous half-smile again. "Tomorrow you prove your words. Tonight you drink with me. But understand this, Luca if you lie, if you falter, if you hesitate even once…" He touched Luca's chest again, right where the cut burned. "…I will not need this blade. I will destroy you piece by piece until you beg me to end it."
Luca forced a smile, his voice steady despite the chaos in his chest. "Then I'll have to make sure you never want to end me."
For the first time, Dante laughed. Low, dangerous, and almost amused.
"Careful, stranger," Dante whispered. "I might begin to like you."
That night, Luca left the velvet sanctuary with the taste of iron on his lips and the weight of a king's eyes on his back. He had offered blood to the throne, and in return, he had been marked.
The first scar
was his own. Many more would come.