Chapter 7: A Dance of Knives
The rain was relentless, hammering against the city like an army of drums. Streets glistened black beneath the weight of water, neon lights blurring into smears of red and gold. The Moretti estate stood like a fortress above it all, silent and unyielding, its gates locked, its shadows deeper than the storm.
Inside, silence reigned.
Luca stood before a full-length mirror in Dante's private dressing chamber, the weight of a pistol heavy in his palm. He had killed before, of course—any man who survived the streets had blood on his hands. But this was different. This was not survival. This was obedience. This was ceremony.
A test.
Behind him, Dante adjusted his cufflinks, calm as a priest preparing a sermon. He was dressed for the night in a charcoal suit, no tie, his shirt collar open to reveal the faintest line of ink that disappeared into his chest. His reflection in the mirror was a perfect contrast to Luca's: composed, elegant, unshakable.
"You know his name," Dante said, voice smooth, quiet. "You know his face. You know his crime."
Luca nodded, fingers flexing around the grip of the weapon. "He spoke too loud. He hid too much."
"He betrayed me." Dante's eyes flicked up, catching Luca's in the glass. "That is all you need to know. Betrayal is cancer. You cut it out, or it spreads. Tonight you will cut."
Luca forced himself to meet his gaze. "And if I fail?"
Dante's lips curved faintly. "Then you will never see another dawn."
The storm outside roared louder, as if echoing the promise.
The car ride was long, silent. Dante sat beside him in the back, one leg crossed, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily, the faint scent of clove and fire filling the enclosed space. His presence was suffocating, magnetic.
Luca stared at the blurred city lights through rain-streaked glass, his chest tight, his hand never leaving the gun tucked at his side. Every heartbeat sounded like a countdown.
"Fear is good," Dante murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. "Fear sharpens the blade. Fear makes a man alive. But hesitation, Stray that will kill you faster than any bullet."
"I won't hesitate," Luca said quietly.
Dante leaned closer, his breath warm against Luca's ear. "You already have. Every second you wonder if you can do it, you are hesitating. Don't think. Act. Only then will you belong."
Luca closed his eyes, steadying his breath. He told himself it was just another game, another move on the chessboard. But deep inside, he knew it was more. This was not about the target. This was about Dante.
And Luca would bleed, kill, or burn if it meant earning that gaze of approval.
The target was waiting in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the docks. A man in his forties, broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit that once screamed power but now sagged with desperation. He was tied to a chair beneath a single flickering light.
His eyes widened when he saw Dante. His voice cracked with fear. "Boss, please you know me, I've been loyal for years"
"Loyalty is not years," Dante interrupted coldly. "It is now."
The man's gaze snapped to Luca, confusion flickering. "Who is this?"
Dante stepped behind Luca, his hand pressing against the small of his back, guiding him forward. "This is my Stray. Tonight, he proves his loyalty."
The man's eyes widened further, panic setting in. "No, no, you can't trust him, he's nothing, he's"
The gun was in Luca's hand before he realized it. His heart pounded. His finger hovered against the trigger.
The man thrashed, his voice breaking into pleas, curses, bargains. Every word echoed in the hollow space, mixing with the sound of the storm pounding against the corrugated metal roof.
"Do it," Dante murmured against Luca's ear, his hand tightening on his shoulder. "Or I will put a bullet in both your skulls."
Luca's breath trembled. His pulse thundered in his throat. The man's face blurred, became every face he had ever betrayed, every ghost he had carried. His hand shook—then stilled.
He pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening. The body slumped, head snapping back, blood spraying against the concrete. The echo of the shot lingered long after silence fell.
Luca's chest heaved. His hand still gripped the gun, though his arm felt numb.
Dante's hand slid from his shoulder to his throat, tilting his head back gently. His lips brushed Luca's ear.
"Good," he whispered. "Very good."
They left the body where it fell. Outside, the rain washed blood from Luca's hands, but it did not cleanse him. He could still feel it the weight of the man's life, the power of ending it, the way Dante's approval burned hotter than guilt.
Back in the car, Dante poured him a glass of whiskey from a silver flask. His eyes never left Luca as he handed it over.
"You've taken your first step," Dante said softly. "You killed for me. Not for survival. Not for yourself. For me."
Luca swallowed the whiskey in one burning gulp, his throat raw. "And if I said I liked it?"
Dante smiled slowly, predator and king. "Then I would say you are finally mine.
That night, back at the estate, Dante did not let him sleep.
The ritual of blood turned to the ritual of flesh. In Dante's bed, the echoes of the gunshot melted into gasps, into bruises, into the desperate claiming of body and will. Luca surrendered again and again, not to weakness but to power, to belonging.
And as dawn broke over the city, painting the estate in pale gold, Luca realized the truth he had been avoiding.
He had not just killed for Dante.
He had killed a part of himself.
And he did not mourn it.