The city never slept, but dawn painted it in cruel light. Gray clouds smothered the skyline, the sound of sirens distant yet constant, like a hymn to violence. Luca leaned against the cold glass of his borrowed window, shirtless, his body still carrying the marks of last night the faint bruise at his throat where Dante's hand had rested, the swollen sting of a kiss that was not tender but fierce.
He should have felt regret. He should have felt fear. Instead, his chest burned with something worse: hunger.
The Moretti world was devouring him, piece by piece, and he found himself offering more with each bite.
By noon, the club below had shifted into its other role: headquarters. The chandeliers were dimmed, the velvet curtains drawn, and the tables once meant for champagne glasses were now covered in maps, ledgers, and stacks of cash. The captains of Dante's empire gathered like crows in dark suits, their voices sharp, their tempers sharper.
Luca was not invited to the table, not truly, but Dante allowed him to linger in the corner, a shadow near the fire. His presence was both tolerated and tested. Every pair of eyes turned to him at least once, weighing him, marking him as outsider, as stranger.
"Another shipment lost," one capo barked, slamming his fist on the table. "That's the third this month. Someone's bleeding us from inside."
"Rats," another sneered. "They breed in the walls. Cut off their tails, they find another way back in."
Dante sat at the head, silent, pouring himself a measure of brandy. His calm was more dangerous than their fury. When he finally spoke, the room quieted instantly.
"There are no rats in my house," Dante said. His voice was soft, almost bored, but it sliced through the room. "There are men. And men bleed when they betray me. Find them. Bring them to me. Alive."
Luca felt the weight of those words settle in his chest. He was the rat, wasn't he? A liar planted in Dante's house, offering false truths in exchange for survival. He should have trembled under that gaze. But when Dante's eyes flicked briefly toward him, dark and unreadable, Luca forced his lips into the faintest of smiles.
Dante did not look away.
The meeting stretched for hours, voices rising and falling, accusations tossed like knives across the table. Luca remained still, listening, memorizing names and territories, catching patterns in their lies. He had been an outsider his whole life, watching from the edges of rooms he didn't belong in. It was his gift: people spoke freely when they thought you powerless.
And he was not powerless. Not here. Not anymore.
When the last capo finally stormed out, leaving cigarette smoke curling behind him, Dante leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. The silence that followed was heavy.
"Come," Dante said, his voice low. Not an invitation. A command.
Luca stepped forward, crossing the distance until he stood at Dante's side. The king of the family looked up at him, eyes narrowed, as though seeing straight through the bones of his lies.
"You listened," Dante said. "What did you hear?"
Luca hesitated. This was a test, another blade against his throat. "I heard fear," he said carefully. "Fear disguised as anger. One of them already knows who the rat is. But he won't say it until he can use the knowledge against you."
Dante's lips curved faintly, a predator's smile. "You're certain?"
Luca leaned closer, lowering his voice. "No one argues that hard unless they're hiding something. He shouted the loudest. He was desperate to look clean.
Dante studied him for a long, silent moment. Then he rose to his feet. For a man who ruled empires, he moved with unhurried grace, every step calculated. He stopped close too close forcing Luca to tilt his head up to meet his gaze.
"You're bold, Stray," Dante murmured. His hand lifted, fingers brushing against Luca's jaw, tilting it up slightly. "Bold enough to speak against men who have slit throats for less."
Luca swallowed, but his voice was steady. "You asked for truth. I gave it. Or do you only want lies that flatter you?"
For the first time that day, Dante laughed. A low, dangerous sound that sent a shiver through Luca's chest. His thumb dragged along Luca's lower lip, slow and deliberate.
"You're beginning to understand," Dante said. "Loyalty is not about truth. It is about who you bleed for."
Luca's breath caught. "And what if I choose you?"
The silence stretched, heavy with danger. Dante leaned in, his lips close enough to graze Luca's ear.
"Then I will teach you what it means," Dante whispered. "To bleed. To burn. To belong."
That night, the club roared again with music, but Luca found himself drawn into Dante's private quarters instead. The door locked behind them with a click that echoed like a verdict.
Dante poured wine, but the glasses were forgotten almost immediately. He stepped close, his hand sliding against Luca's throat again, familiar now, commanding. He pressed him back against the velvet wall, lips claiming his with brutal certainty.
The kiss was fire. Possession. A warning.
Luca's hands gripped Dante's shoulders, not to push him away but to hold on. Every nerve in his body screamed with the danger of it, the thrill, the inevitability. When Dante finally pulled back, his smile was sharp, his eyes darker than the night outside.
"You wanted to belong," Dante murmured. "Then give yourself to me."
Luca's chest heaved. He knew the meaning behind the words. Loyalty in Dante's world was not a promise it was a surrender. It was body, blood, soul.
And Luca, liar that he was, surrendered.
The hours blurred into heat and shadow. The velvet room became a stage for something more primal than politics. Dante's touch was not gentle; it was command, it was ownership, it was proof that power did not stop at the table but claimed the body as well. And Luca, caught between deception and desire, let himself be claimed.
It was not love. It was not tenderness. It was survival dressed as passion, lust sharpened into a weapon.
And yet, when the smoke cleared, when silence returned and Luca lay against the silk sheets marked by sweat and wine, he felt something dangerously close to belonging.
Dante lit a cigarette, the glow of it faint in the dark. He exhaled smoke slowly, his gaze lingering on Luca.
"You are mine now," Dante said, voice low but certain. "Not because I trust you. Not because you are loyal. But because you've given me the only thing a man cannot take back."
Luca's throat tightened. He whispered, "And what is that?"
Dante leaned close, his lips brushing his ear.
"Your first betrayal."
When Dante slept, Luca lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the cut on his chest aching in rhythm with his heartbeat. He knew what Dante meant. He had betrayed himself. His body, his will, his hunger—they belonged to Dante now, no matter what lies he told.
And in the smoke-filled dark, Luca realized the most dangerous truth of all.
He wanted it.