The sun never truly rose in New York not for men like Dante Moretti. Morning was a gray ghost outside, muted by curtains and the faint hum of traffic. Inside Il Sogno Nero, silence reigned. The club slept, its chandeliers cold, its velvet chairs abandoned.
Luca sat alone at the polished bar, nursing black coffee poured by a man who had said nothing since he walked in. His shirt was new, pressed, and clean shirt, a gift from one of Dante's men, though Luca knew better than to call it generosity. In this world, nothing was free.
The cut on his chest still burned. Every beat of his heart reminded him of last night, of the knife pressed against his skin, of Dante's lips claiming the blood. A scar would remain. Not deep, but permanent. A mark.
He pressed his palm over it, closing his eyes. He should have been terrified. He should have run the moment Dante let him out of that room. But instead, he found himself anchored by a strange, dangerous pull.
He wanted more
"Still here."
Dante's voice slid into the silence, soft yet sharp. Luca opened his eyes and found him leaning in the doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. In the daylight, Dante looked no less dangerous. If anything, the shadows had only sharpened him.
"Should I not be?" Luca asked.
Dante's lips curved faintly. "Most men leave after the first test. They don't enjoy bleeding."
Luca raised his cup, his smile thin. "I've had worse."
Dante stepped into the room, each movement deliberate. He came behind the bar, poured himself whiskey instead of coffee, and leaned against the counter beside Luca. Their shoulders nearly brushed. The silence between them was thick, a chess game of unsaid truths.
"You spoke of my brother," Dante said finally, his voice stripped of last night's amusement. "You spoke of a ghost that should not exist. This is your chance, Luca. Prove you're not lying. Tell me everything."
The moment had come.
Luca inhaled slowly, steadying his pulse. He had spent years preparing for this. He had rehearsed the words, studied the Moretti family like scripture. Every detail, every whispered rumor, every forgotten name. But still his was the most dangerous game of all.
He let the lie fall smoothly, like silk.
"Your brother lives," he said. His voice was quiet but sure. "Not in flesh, perhaps, but in name. Men in Sicily your rivals, your enemies use him as their banner. They claim he left heirs, blood to carry on his power. They whisper that he was betrayed, not killed. They whisper that you are not his true successor."
Dante's jaw tightened, though his face betrayed nothing else.
Luca continued. "These whispers grow. And soon, they will be more than whispers. They will be soldiers. They will be blood spilled in your streets. If you ignore them, they will rise. If you silence them, they will only spread. But if you use me if you let me move among them, if you let me pretend loyalty.
I can bring them to you. One by one."
Silence.
Dante swirled his whiskey, eyes fixed on the amber liquid as though it contained the truth. Then he turned, sharp and sudden, his gaze burning into Luca's.
"You speak well," Dante said. His voice was soft, but the weight of it pressed like a blade. "Too well for a stray in the rain. Who are you really?"
Luca's lips parted. He had expected the question, but not so soon. Still, he smiled, leaning back casually, though inside his stomach tightened like a knot.
"No one," he said. "No one important. Which is exactly why I'm useful. No one notices a shadow until it's too late."
For a heartbeat, he thought Dante would strike him down, that his careful game would end in this quiet room. But instead, Dante's mouth curved into that dangerous smile again.
"You are lying to me," Dante said softly.
Luca froze.
"And yet…" Dante leaned closer, his breath warm against Luca's ear. "I like it."
The words struck deeper than any knife. Luca turned, their faces inches apart, and for a moment, neither spoke. The air thickened with something darker than violence, heavier than suspicion.
Dante's gaze flicked to Luca's lips, lingering just long enough to betray thought. Then he pulled away, his smile sharp. "Come. Tonight, you will dine at my table again. We will see if your lies are worth the wine I waste on you."
That night, the table was fuller. More capos, more men who weighed Luca with their eyes as though measuring his worth against the price of a bullet. The women at the table draped themselves across laps and chairs, laughing too loud, drinking too much, their diamonds catching the light. But Luca knew they were no less dangerous than the men.
Dante presided like a king, glass raised, laughter controlled, every word calculated.
Luca sat at his right hand. A place of honor or of scrutiny.
The meal stretched long, course after course, but the true feast was power. Men argued over shipments, territories, bribes. Names were whispered like curses. Each time voices rose too high, Dante silenced them with nothing more than a look.
At one point, he leaned toward Luca, his lips brushing dangerously close as he murmured, "Watch them. Every smile is a lie. Every toast is a knife."
And Luca did watch. He watched the way one capo's hand shook when Dante's name was spoken. He saw the tension in another's jaw, the bitterness in the way he poured his wine. He caught the flash of jealousy in the eyes of a woman pressed too close to Dante's side, her gaze darting toward Luca like poison tipped with honey.
Every glance, every gesture, was a weapon.
And Luca realized, with a cold clarity, that he was no different.
Later, when the table cleared and only silence remained, Dante lingered in the velvet shadows with him.
"You lied to me again tonight," Dante said.
Luca's pulse quickened, though he forced a smile. "You still kept me at your side."
Dante's hand came up, fingers brushing Luca's throat, slow, deliberate. "Because sometimes a lie is more useful than the truth."
His thumb lingered at the hollow of Luca's neck, and the air between them burned.
"One day," Dante whispered, "you will tell me who you truly are. But until then…" His lips curved. "Your lies belong to me."
Luca swallowed, his voice steady despite the fire in his chest. "Then I'll make sure they're beautiful enough to keep."
Dante's laughter was soft, low, and far too dangerous.
That night, Luca returned to his borrowed room with the echo of Dante's touch still on his throat. The lie had been told. The first of many.
And though it had bought him another day of life, he knew the truth would one day demand its price.