Let me tell you something about power - my name is Luca Benedetti, and I've built my life on understanding exactly how much of it I need to survive in a world that eats the weak for breakfast. Twenty-eight years old, heir to one of Chicago's most feared crime families, and I've got more blood on my hands than most men see in their nightmares. But here's what separates me from the animals in this business: I understand control. Real control. The kind that gets into people's heads and makes them want to give you exactly what you need.
My mother taught me that. God rest her soul, she'd probably be ashamed of how I use her lessons now, but she taught me to read people like books, especially women. "Lucas," she'd say in that soft Italian accent, "women are not mysteries to be solved, they are hearts to be understood." She wanted me to love them better. Instead, I learned to control them completely. The irony would kill her if she weren't already dead.
Right now I'm sitting in Torrino's private dining room, cutting into osso buco that reminds me too much of blood, trying not to show weakness in front of Vincent Torrino while his Cuban cigar smoke gives me a headache I can't acknowledge. Vincent's hands shake just slightly when he raises his wine glass - age creeping in despite his iron will - and I can smell the cancer eating him alive even through his expensive cologne. The old man's dying, and everyone at this table knows it.
"Your father would be proud," Vincent says, and the words hit like they always do. Fifteen years since Papa died screaming in a car that became his metal coffin, and I still feel like that thirteen-year-old boy who wasn't strong enough to save him. "Twenty-eight years old and already commanding more respect than men twice your age."
Respect. The word Papa beat into me, literally and figuratively, from the time I could walk. Along with a few other lessons about power and pain that I probably shouldn't have learned so young. But here's the thing about trauma - it either breaks you or it teaches you exactly how much control you need to never be helpless again. I chose the latter.
"Papa always said I was a fast learner," I reply, surprised by the roughness in my own voice. I force myself to meet Vincent's toast even though the wine tastes like ash. Across from me, Valentina shifts in her chair, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. Something expensive and floral that always reminded me of funeral flowers, which seems appropriate given our relationship is pretty much dead and buried.
She looks beautiful tonight, like she always does. Dark hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless, wearing a dress that probably cost more than most people make in a month. And when she looks at me, there's something in those dark eyes that makes my stomach clench with recognition. Not love - we burned through that possibility years ago - but something hungrier and more complicated. The look a woman gets when she's trying to solve a puzzle she can't quite figure out.
I should probably feel guilty about what I've done to her over the years. Eight years engaged, and I've never been faithful. Never pretended to be. Hell, I had Sarah Morrison bent over my desk just this morning, making her call me "Sir" while she gripped the edge and took everything I gave her. Valentina knows about the others - all of them - and I know it hurts her. But here's the thing: I never lied about what I could offer. I gave her my protection, my name, my respect. I just never gave her my heart. Can't afford to.
"Power without legitimacy is just brutality," Valentina says, her manicured fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. Her voice carries that particular edge that reminds everyone she's not just Vincent's daughter - she's his heir. Smart, dangerous, and getting tired of waiting for me to be the man she thinks she needs. "The Morettis learned that lesson last month."
And there it is. Tony Moretti's death, laid out like an accusation. Tony had been stupid, sure, but he'd also been a friend once. We'd grown up together, played stickball in the same streets, shared our first drink when we turned eighteen. The fact that I'd been the one to order his execution didn't make it easier to digest, but it was necessary. In this life, stupidity is terminal, and I can't afford to let sentiment make me weak.
"Tony forgot the rules," I say quietly, pushing the memory of his shocked face from my mind. "In this life, that's terminal."
Vincent leans forward, his bulk making the expensive chair creak like old bones settling. The sound always reminds me of foundations shifting under pressure. "Speaking of terminal..." His eyes move between Valentina and me with the calculating look of a man who's spent sixty years playing chess with people's lives. "You two have been engaged for eight years. I'm starting to wonder if I'll live long enough to see grandchildren."
The question hits like a punch to the gut, not because it's unexpected - Vincent asks it every few months now - but because of the longing in the old man's voice. Vincent Torrino is dying, slowly but surely, and everyone at this table knows it. Pancreatic cancer, stage three. The doctors gave him maybe two years, and that was six months ago.
"When the time is right," I say, hating how hollow the words sound even to me. "The families need stability first."
Valentina's laugh is sharp, bitter, and I know exactly what's coming before she opens her mouth. "Stability." She sets down her wine glass with enough force to make the liquid slosh, and I find myself wondering what she'd do if I bent her over this table right here and reminded her exactly who she belongs to. The thought comes unbidden, inappropriate, and exactly the kind of distraction that's gotten me in trouble before. "Eight years of stability, Luca. Eight years of waiting for the 'right time' while you parade a different woman around the city every week."
The accusation hangs in the air like gunpowder waiting for a spark. I can feel heat rise in my cheeks - embarrassment mixed with anger and something darker. She's not wrong, and that's what makes it sting. I've never tried to hide my affairs, never pretended this engagement was about love. But hearing it laid out so bluntly, especially in front of Vincent, makes me feel like the selfish bastard I probably am.
And underneath the guilt, there's something else. Something that recognizes the fire in her voice, the way her breathing has changed, the flush in her cheeks. Valentina's angry, sure, but she's also responding to confrontation the way she always has. The same way she used to respond when I'd pin her against the wall of my penthouse and make her admit exactly what she wanted. Even now, even furious with me, her body remembers.
"Those women mean nothing," I say, and the defense sounds weak even to my ears. "You know that."
"Do I?" Valentina's eyes blaze, and Christ, she's beautiful when she's angry. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like everything means nothing to you. This engagement, this family, the promises you made-"
"Enough." Vincent's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. The old man's face has gone pale, and I can see the cost of even this small outburst in the way his hands tremble as he reaches for his pills. "This is not the time or place."
Guilt twists in my stomach as I watch Vincent dry-swallow two white tablets. The man's dying, and instead of making his last years peaceful, I'm giving him family drama and broken promises. My father would have been ashamed. Then again, my father had his own ideas about shame and disappointment, usually expressed with his fists behind closed doors where no one could see the great Don Benedetti teaching his son about weakness.
My phone buzzes against my chest, cutting through the self-recrimination. Only three people have this number, and two of them are sitting at this table. The message is short, coded, urgent: "Warehouse. Now. Emergency. -M"
Marco. My underboss and the closest thing to family I have left. If Marco's using emergency protocols, someone's either dead or about to be.
"Family business?" Vincent asks, noting my changed expression. The old man's still sharp, still reading people like books even with cancer eating him alive.
"The kind that can't wait." I stand, straightening my jacket. My hand brushes against the Sig Sauer in my shoulder holster - a habit that's kept me alive this long. "Vincent, I'm sorry about dinner. We'll continue this conversation soon."
I move to kiss Valentina's cheek, a gesture that's become routine over the years. As my lips brush her skin, I feel her stiffen, catch the scent of her shampoo mixed with something else - anger, disappointment, maybe even hatred. But underneath all of that, there's still that familiar smell of arousal that she can't hide from me. My mother's lessons at work: I know what women want, even when they don't want to want it.
"Be careful," she whispers, her hand briefly touching my wrist. To anyone watching, it looks like a concerned fiancée's farewell. But her fingers press against my pulse point, and I can't shake the feeling she's checking to see if my heart's still beating. "The streets are dangerous tonight."
Something in her tone makes me pull back and really look at her. Valentina Torrino is many things - beautiful, intelligent, ruthless when she needs to be - but she's not typically cryptic. Tonight, though, there's something in her eyes that looks almost like... pity?
"I'm always careful," I say, more confused than concerned.
Her smile is sad, resigned. "Are you? I wonder sometimes if you know how to be anything else."
Fifteen minutes later I'm pushing my Maserati through Chicago traffic, Vincent's words echoing in my head. Grandchildren. Legacy. The right time. When is the right time? When the families are more stable? When the federal investigations die down? When I figure out how to love a woman I've known since childhood but who feels like a stranger wearing a familiar face?
The warehouse district looks like a movie set for urban decay - abandoned buildings, broken streetlights, the occasional homeless person pushing a shopping cart full of aluminum cans and broken dreams. It's the perfect place for the kind of business that can't be conducted in boardrooms or restaurants. This is where secrets come to die, and tonight feels like it's going to be a night for dying.
Marco's waiting by the loading dock, smoking a cigarette with the desperate intensity of a man trying to calm his nerves. At fifty-two, Marco Salvini looks like he's been carved from granite and disappointment. Scars on his knuckles, silver in his hair, and eyes that have seen too much to ever be surprised again. He's been with my family since before I was born, loyal as a dog and twice as mean when he needs to be.
"Boss," Marco says, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his heel. "We got a real problem."
"Talk to me."
"Johnny Torrino's been singing opera for the feds."
The words hit me like ice water in the veins. Johnny Torrino - Vincent's nephew, Valentina's cousin, a man who'd sat at Christmas dinner and laughed at my jokes and called me family. I think about all the times he'd been in my home, my office, privy to conversations that could put us all in federal cages for the rest of our lives.
"You're sure?" I ask, though I can already see the answer in Marco's face.
"Got photos, recordings, the whole package." Marco hands over a manila envelope with hands that aren't quite steady. "He's been meeting with Assistant US Attorney Sarah Chen twice a week for the past month. Vincent's nephew is trying to put us all in cages."
I flip through the photographs, each one feeling like a punch to the gut. There's Johnny, nervous and sweating, sitting across from a severe-looking Asian woman in a government-issue suit. Johnny accepting an envelope. Johnny handing over documents. Johnny destroying the life and trust of everyone who'd ever cared about him.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe. I think about Vincent, dying and desperate to see his family's legacy continue. About Valentina, already angry and now about to discover her own cousin had betrayed them all. "Vincent know?"
"Not yet. Figured you'd want to handle the family politics."
Family politics. The delicate dance of maintaining alliances while protecting everyone's interests. Johnny is Vincent's blood, but blood means nothing if it's poisoned. And Valentina... Christ, how am I going to tell Valentina that her family produced a rat?
"Set up a meeting," I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "Tell Johnny we want to discuss expanding his territory."
Marco nods grimly. "What about Vincent?"
"I'll handle Vincent." I close the envelope, feeling the weight of what it contains. Death warrant. That's all this really is. "Give me two hours before you move. I need to talk to him first."
"Boss?" Marco's voice is careful, respectful. "You want my opinion?"
I pause. Marco's opinions are usually worth hearing, even when they hurt.
"Vincent's a good man, but he's old school. He still thinks blood means something in this business." Marco lights another cigarette, his hands steadier now that decisions are being made. "And Valentina... she's smart. Maybe too smart. She's been asking questions about the books, about territory divisions, about things that aren't really her business yet."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind that make me think she's planning for a future that doesn't include waiting for anyone's permission."
The words hit me like a cold wind. I think about dinner, about Valentina's anger, about the way she looked at me like she was solving a problem. About her questions regarding stability and legitimacy, about the pity in her eyes when she told me to be careful.
"You think she knows about Johnny?"
"I think Valentina Torrino knows a lot of things she's not sharing with the rest of us. And boss? I think she's getting tired of being treated like a piece of furniture in her own family's business."
I walk back to my car in silence, Marco's words churning in my head along with the wine and rich dinner that now sits like lead in my stomach. As I start the engine, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:
*"Some secrets run deeper than blood. Some crowns are worth more than gold. Be careful who you trust, Prince of Shadows."*
Prince of Shadows. The phrase sends an odd chill down my spine, though I can't say why. It sounds like something from a fairy tale, the kind my mother used to read me before the bombs and the blood stole her away. But there's something about it that feels familiar, like an echo of a song I heard in a dream.
I delete the message and pull into traffic, but the words stick with me. Some secrets run deeper than blood. Tonight, with Johnny's betrayal fresh in my mind and Valentina's strange warnings echoing in my ears, that feels less like poetry and more like prophecy.
The drive back to my penthouse gives me time to think, time to plan the conversation with Vincent that will break the old man's heart. Time to wonder what else Valentina knows, what other secrets are hiding in the spaces between loyalty and ambition. Time to remember my mother's voice telling me that women are hearts to be understood, while knowing I've spent my adult life turning that wisdom into a weapon.
By the time I reach my building, I've made my decision. Johnny Torrino will die quietly, professionally, with as little pain as possible. Vincent will be told gently, in private, with all the respect his position and his grief deserve. And Valentina... Valentina will have to be watched. Carefully.
Standing at my floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at Chicago sparkling like scattered diamonds against black velvet, I allow myself a moment of honest self-reflection. I'm twenty-eight years old, heir to one of the most powerful crime families in the country, and I'm surrounded by people who either want to betray me or control me. Maybe it's time to start trusting my instincts about who really has my back.
Outside, ten million people are living their lives, falling in love, raising children, building futures that don't require bulletproof cars or shoulder holsters or the constant calculation of who might want them dead. For just a moment, I envy them. Then I pour myself a drink and start planning how to survive another day in paradise.
After all, that's what power really is - not the ability to make people do what you want, but the strength to keep breathing while everyone around you tries to stop.