The world outside was chaos sirens, storms, and whispers of blood in the streets. But inside the Moretti estate, silence hung heavy, broken only by the ticking of a clock older than any man in the room.
Luca sat at the edge of the long mahogany table, where the air smelled of smoke, leather, and expensive brandy. The estate was nothing like Il Sogno Nero. Here, velvet was traded for marble, chandeliers for oil paintings, luxury for the austere weight of tradition. Every shadow in the hall carried ghosts.
At the head of the table sat Dante.
He was dressed differently tonight, not in the sleek armor of his nightclub persona but in something more intimate: a black turtleneck, sleeves rolled, a knife strapped carelessly at his hip as if it were no more than a watch. He was every inch the king still, but one made of flesh rather than untouchable legend.
Luca knew this was deliberate. Everything Dante showed was deliberate.
The captains had been dismissed. The women, too. Only Dante and Luca remained in the cavernous room, the door locked, the world shut out.
"You think you're clever," Dante said finally, his voice soft as velvet. He poured two glasses of wine, the liquid catching the low light like spilled blood. "You think I don't see the way your eyes move. The way you listen. The way you calculate."
Luca's lips curved faintly. "And yet you keep me here."
Dante handed him a glass, fingers brushing his deliberately. The touch lingered, deliberate. Dangerous. "Perhaps I enjoy watching a man lie to my face."
Luca raised the wine to his lips, though he didn't drink. His gaze held Dante's. "Or perhaps you want me to lie. Perhaps it entertains you."
A shadow of a smile touched Dante's mouth. He leaned back in his chair, sipping from his own glass. "Entertain me, then. Tell me something beautiful."
The words hung between them. Not a request. A command.
Luca thought of all the lies he had prepared. The false whispers, the stories of Dante's dead brother twisted into daggers. But none of them felt right now, not here, not under this gaze that stripped him bare.
Instead, he leaned forward, lowering his voice into something intimate. "You want to know what I see when I look at you?"
Dante's brow arched faintly, though his eyes did not waver. "Do tell."
"I see a man who wears crowns made of knives," Luca whispered. "A man who pretends he is untouchable but bleeds in silence where no one can see. A man who collects loyalty, not because he trusts it, but because he is afraid of what will happen if he ever loses it."
The silence was sharp as glass. Dante did not move. His gaze darkened, but his body was still, a predator weighing the threat of a smaller beast.
"Careful, Stray," Dante murmured. "Your tongue cuts deeper than a blade."
Luca leaned closer. "Maybe that's why you keep me alive."
Dante's laugh was low, dangerous. He set down his glass and stood, moving around the table. His steps were slow, deliberate, echoing across the marble floor. When he stopped behind Luca's chair, his hand came down, fingers curling into Luca's hair, tilting his head back.
"You mistake curiosity for mercy," Dante said softly, his lips brushing dangerously close to Luca's ear. "Do you know what I do to men who see too much?"
Luca swallowed, forcing his voice steady. "You destroy them."
Dante's grip tightened, pulling his head back further, exposing his throat. "And yet you sit here, telling me truths you shouldn't know. Do you want to be destroyed?"
Luca's breath trembled. "Maybe I want to see if you can."
The tension snapped. Dante's mouth claimed his in a kiss that was brutal, searing, demanding. The chair scraped against the floor as Dante pulled him up, shoving him back against the table. The wine spilled, staining the wood like blood.
The kiss deepened, raw and hungry. Dante's hand gripped Luca's throat again, his other tugging at his shirt, tearing fabric. Luca gasped against him, the air thick with the mix of smoke and desire. Every touch was both a threat and a promise.
"You don't know what you're playing with," Dante growled against his lips.
"Yes," Luca whispered, breathless, "I do."
Dante's eyes burned. His hand slid down, pressing against the scar he had carved days ago. "This mark is mine. Every lie you tell, every breath you take—it belongs to me now."
Luca arched into the touch, half defiance, half surrender. "Then take more."
The hours that followed blurred into heat and shadow. Behind closed doors, the king of the Moretti family did not command with words but with touch, with hunger, with the ruthless certainty of a man who took what he wanted. Luca yielded, not out of weakness but because every act of surrender was another knife he buried deeper into Dante's chest.
It was war disguised as passion. Betrayal disguised as loyalty. And yet, somewhere between the gasps and the bruises, between the spilled wine and the smoke curling through the air, Luca lost track of which side of the blade he was on.
When silence finally returned, Dante stood by the window, shirt unbuttoned, cigarette glowing faint in the dark. His silhouette was carved against the night, a king staring out at his kingdom.
"You think this makes you loyal," Dante said without turning. His voice was soft, dangerous. "It doesn't. Loyalty is not given in beds or in kisses. Loyalty is proven in blood."
Luca sat at the table, shirt torn, chest still marked by Dante's touch. His voice was quiet, steady. "Then let me prove it."
Dante turned at last, smoke curling from his lips. His smile was slow, deliberate, sharp.
"You will," Dante murmured. "Tomorrow night. There is a man I want you to kill."
The words hung heavy in the room, a sentence more binding than any kiss.
Luca's pulse thundered, but he forced himself to nod. "Who?"
Dante's smile widened. "A man who shouted too loudly in my house today. A man who thinks I don't hear the way he whispers. You wanted to belong, Stray? Then tonight you belong to me. Tomorrow you belong to my family."
When Dante left him alone, the silence felt heavier than before. Luca pressed his hand against the cut on his chest, the bruise at his throat, the ache in his body.
He had given himself over behind closed doors. Now Dante wanted more.
Blood.
The first kill
And Luca, liar that he was, realized he would do it. Not because it proved loyalty. Not because it earned survival.
But because he wanted to see Dante's eyes burn with approval when he did.