The first thing anyone noticed when stepping into Mercato del Muerte was the silence. Not the absence of sound—there was always sound here. Bargains whispered in ten different languages, the distant clink of steel, the soft groans of caged men and women being appraised like livestock. No, the silence was something else entirely. It was the weight of fear, pressing down on every conversation, reminding everyone that one wrong move could be their last.
And at the center of it all sat Matthew DelaCroix.
The man didn't need to shout to rule. He didn't need to brandish weapons or throw his weight around. He simply was, and that was enough. In the heart of the black market, at a polished mahogany table overlooking the main trading floor, Matthew leaned back in his chair, cigarette between his lips, eyes half-lidded with the cool disinterest of someone who owned everything he saw.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black tailored suit, he was the kind of man whose presence drew gazes without effort. His hair fell loose to his jawline, soft waves framing a face that would've been beautiful if not for the scar cutting through his right brow. A reminder, perhaps, that even kings bled.
On the table before him, an antique dagger gleamed under the dim lights. Its tip rested casually against the ledger of names and debts—Matthew's way of saying lives and fortunes balanced on his whim.
"—the shipment was intercepted, sir. Someone must have tipped them off."
The trembling voice belonged to a man kneeling at Matthew's feet, forehead pressed to the cold floor. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt as if the stone beneath him were burning instead of freezing.
Matthew exhaled smoke, slow and deliberate. His pale green eyes lowered to the man with all the weight of judgment itself.
"Interesting." His voice was smooth, calm, almost bored. "And yet you are still breathing."
The man choked out a plea. "Please, it won't happen again—"
Matthew flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, stood, and pressed the dagger's edge against the man's throat. The steel was icy.
"You're right," he murmured, leaning down so close the man could feel the whisper of his breath. "It won't."
One sharp motion, one gasp, and blood stained the floor. Silence thickened around the trading floor below. No one dared look up, but every soul felt the echo: the Black Market's King had spoken.
Matthew wiped the blade with a linen napkin as though it were wine he'd spilled. He didn't even glance twice at the body dragged away.
Business continued, as it always did.
Far from the table, in the shadow of a balcony railing, Vinny Rossi watched with a smirk tugging at his lips.
Now that was a performance.
Vinny leaned against the railing like he belonged there, dressed in a crimson silk shirt half-buttoned to show off the ink curling across his collarbone. He held a glass of whiskey, swirling it lazily as his eyes tracked Matthew's every movement. Where others looked at the mafia king with fear, Vinny's gaze burned with amusement.
"Cold bastard," Vinny murmured, downing the drink. "No wonder they call him untouchable."
He wasn't supposed to be here tonight. His family—the Rossi syndicate—was still licking its wounds from their last clash with the DelaCroix network. They'd warned him to stay out of Matthew's territory.
But Vinny? He was never good at listening.
Especially when it came to men like Matthew.
The first time he'd heard the name, he'd pictured some old warlord with gray hair and blood under his nails. He hadn't expected this—a man not much older than him, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. The kind of man you didn't just fear; you couldn't stop thinking about.
Vinny smirked to himself. And dangerous men are always the most fun to play with.
"Enjoying the show?"
The voice slid into his ear, sharp and amused. Vinny turned his head to find Kieran Hale standing beside him, glass of wine in hand. Kieran's sharp cheekbones caught the light, his smirk razor-edged.
Vinny chuckled. "Front-row seats to a public execution? Couldn't ask for better entertainment."
Kieran arched a brow. "Most people down there are shitting themselves."
"That's because most people aren't me." Vinny's grin widened, cocky. "Tell me, Hale—do you think the king would notice if I stepped onto his stage?"
Kieran's laugh was quiet, dangerous. "Oh, he'd notice. He notices everything. The question is whether you'd still be alive after."
Vinny tipped his glass back, eyes never leaving Matthew. "Alive, dead… it's all about how you play the game."
Below, Matthew finished another deal, sliding a black folder across the table. His men flanked him—silent, efficient, each armed to the teeth.
And then his gaze lifted.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. His pale green eyes locked onto Vinny's, unblinking, assessing. It was like being skewered alive, pinned in place by a predator who'd already decided what kind of prey you were.
Most men would have looked away. Vinny didn't. He raised his glass in a mocking toast, lips curling into a smile that was equal parts challenge and flirtation.
Matthew said nothing. He only leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, before returning to his ledger.
But Vinny felt it. The promise. The warning.
The game had begun.
"Careful," Kieran drawled, sipping his wine. "He doesn't play games the way you do."
Vinny's laugh was low, reckless. "Good. I'd hate to get bored."
He set his glass down, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, and started down the stairs toward the floor of Mercato del Muerte.
If Matthew DelaCroix was the king of this world, then Vinny Rossi had just decided he wanted to see how far he could push the crown off his head.
The floor of Mercato del Muerte was alive with shadows. Traders whispered over stolen tech, rare weapons gleamed beneath glass cases, and dancers in jeweled masks swayed on stages that doubled as auction blocks. Men with blood on their hands brushed shoulders with men in tailored suits, the scent of iron mixing with perfume and smoke.
Vinny moved through it all like it was his kingdom.
Heads turned when he passed—partly because he didn't belong, partly because he carried himself like he did. Crimson silk glowed against the gloom, tattoos curling like smoke across his skin. He had that dangerous smile, the kind that promised trouble but made you want to follow anyway.
The Rossi name wasn't welcome here. Everyone knew that. But Vinny thrived on lines he wasn't supposed to cross.
And tonight, he had his eyes on one line in particular: Matthew DelaCroix.
The Black Market's King was still seated at his table, ledger open, dagger glinting like a second signature. His men stood in a loose half-circle around him—stone-faced, eyes cold, hands always within reach of their weapons.
A lion surrounded by his pride.
Vinny strode straight toward them.
Conversations hushed, like the market itself was holding its breath.
One of Matthew's men—tall, broad, built like a wall—stepped forward, hand outstretched. "The Rossi family isn't welcome here. Turn around."
Vinny's grin widened. "And miss the chance to meet the king himself? Not a chance."
The guard's hand shot out, but Vinny was quicker. He caught the man's wrist, twisted it just enough to make bones creak, and leaned in, voice low and smooth.
"Careful. You'll bruise my shirt."
The guard growled, but Matthew raised a hand.
"Let him through."
The command was calm, but it cut sharper than any blade. Instantly, the guard stepped back, jaw clenched.
Vinny released him with a pat on the chest, then strolled the last few steps to Matthew's table. He pulled out the empty chair opposite the mafia king and sat down as if he belonged there.
"Nice place you've got." Vinny propped his chin on his hand, eyes glittering with mischief. "Though I have to say, it could use a little more color."
Matthew regarded him in silence, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His eyes—those pale, cutting green eyes—swept over Vinny like he was measuring the exact weight of the man's soul.
"You're either very brave," Matthew finally said, voice low and deliberate, "or very stupid."
Vinny smirked. "Why not both?"
A soft chuckle rippled through the men standing guard. But Matthew didn't smile. He leaned forward slightly, the dagger on the table catching the light as his fingers traced its hilt.
"Rossi blood isn't welcome here," Matthew said. "You know that. So tell me—why are you sitting at my table instead of bleeding on my floor?"
Vinny's grin never faltered. He picked up a crystal tumbler from the table, swirled the amber liquid inside, and took a slow sip before answering.
"Because, caro," he said, savoring the word, "you haven't killed me yet. And that means some part of you wants me here."
Matthew's gaze sharpened, the faintest flicker of something dangerous curling at the corner of his mouth.
"Is that what you think?"
"I don't think," Vinny said lightly. "I know."
The tension between them thickened, hot enough to make the air hum. Two alphas, locked in a silent contest that had nothing to do with words.
Vinny leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily, like a cat daring a dog to bite. "Tell me, King DelaCroix—do you always kill your guests, or just the ones who get under your skin?"
Matthew stubbed out his cigarette, eyes never leaving Vinny's.
"I kill anyone who forgets whose world they're standing in." His hand closed around the dagger, slow and deliberate. "And you, Rossi, are one word away from being a memory."
Vinny's pulse quickened—but not with fear. With excitement.
He leaned forward across the table, close enough that his breath brushed against Matthew's jaw. "Then make me a memory," he whispered, voice low, taunting. "Let's see if you can."
For a long moment, neither man moved. The silence was electric, a knife's edge stretched between them. The market itself seemed to pause, waiting for blood.
Then Matthew laughed.
It was quiet, dark, and terrifyingly soft.
He set the dagger down.
"You're reckless," Matthew said, voice like velvet over steel. "Reckless men don't last long in my world."
Vinny grinned, victory sparking in his eyes. "Guess you'll just have to keep me close, then. For safekeeping."
Matthew's smile was cold, sharp. "Careful what you ask for, Rossi. I might just give it to you."
From the balcony above, Kieran smirked into his wine glass.
"Oh, this is going to be fun," he murmured to himself.
And down on the floor, the Black Market whispered.
Two alphas, one throne.
The game had only just begun.