Chapter Two: The Night of Fire
(Flashback: the night before)
The neon lights outside pulsed like heartbeat veins down the streets of Kearny, painting the wet asphalt in ruby and cobalt. The air was cool, carrying the scent of diesel, exhaust, and the faint sweetness of distant food carts. Up and down the block, people strolled, cars rolled past with tires humming on asphalt, while the occasional drunken laugh or shouted greeting broke the otherwise calm night.
Inside the most infamous establishment of the Nunca-Caer Family, The Velvet Dominion, the night had come alive. The club was a sanctuary of indulgence, a cathedral of music and pleasure, and one of Matt Marino's favorites. It sprawled across three floors. The ground floor throbbed with bass, bodies swaying and pressed against each other. A live DJ spun tracks; the latest electro-house remix of "Midnight Mirage" vibrated through the walls, echoing across the polished dance floor.
Private booths lined the perimeter, their soft crimson curtains drawn just enough to offer discreet privacy. Couples whispered, drank, and laughed in shaded corners. The bar ran along the back wall, bottles gleaming under the black-and-gold lighting. Prostitutes moved with choreographed allure, performing mini-routines on small platforms, each step precise, each movement mesmerizing, drawing glances from patrons who tossed bills with careless enthusiasm. Some moved to music, others to the heat of the moment.
Upstairs, the party continued with a slightly tamer crowd, men in tailored suits, women in shimmering dresses, champagne flowing in abundance. Conversations overlapped:
"Did you see that shipment come through?"
"Yeah, Vito said it went smooth. No trouble this time."
"That … "
In the basement, the atmosphere shifted entirely. It was restricted to higher-ranking members of the family. No music, no spectacle, only quiet murmurs, smoke curling from Cuban cigars, cards slapping against felt. Deals were brokered, secrets traded. The weight of authority sat heavily in the dim light, mingled with the faint tang of whiskey. Here, loyalty was currency, and a single slip could cost a man more than pride.
Matt Marino's office overlooked the chaos above, a sanctuary of polished oak and dim gold lighting. Matt looked every bit the executive in his corner of the office. He was broad-shouldered with a well-built frame, standing tall and exuding calm authority. His hair was dark, neatly combed back, with a faint hint of gray at the temples, giving him a distinguished edge. His jawline was strong, and a slight five o'clock shadow added ruggedness to his otherwise polished appearance.
He wore a navy tailored suit that hugged his shoulders and tapered at the waist, a crisp white dress shirt underneath, and a burgundy silk tie knotted perfectly. Black leather Oxford shoes gleamed under the office lights, and a silver watch peeked subtly from his cuff, hinting at both style and punctuality. He carried an aura of quiet control, moving with effortless precision. He sat behind a large desk, his eyes sharp even beneath the playful grin he cast at Shayla, the love of his life and also mother of his son and heir who was following behind him. She was tall, with a graceful posture that drew attention without demanding it. Her hair, a cascade of chestnut waves, fell just past her shoulders, catching the office light with hints of gold. Her eyes, a striking hazel, held a sharp intelligence, and her high cheekbones and delicate jawline gave her a refined, almost sculpted look.
She wore a fitted emerald-green sheath dress that ended just above the knee, the cut accentuating her form without being overt. The dress had subtle seam detailing along the sides, lending it sophistication, and a modest V-neckline that framed her collarbone elegantly. Black pointed-toe heels completed the ensemble, giving her posture an added poise, and a thin silver bracelet on her wrist added a soft, understated shimmer. Her makeup was polished, neutral tones that highlighted her natural beauty, with just enough mascara to make her eyes command attention.
She sat on his thighs strapping him, her back leaning against the desk, a glass of red wine in hand. The glow of the city lights filtered through the window, catching strands of her hair.
"You always look like you belong in a painting, Shayla," Matt murmured, a rare softness in his voice.
"Flattery now, boss?" she teased, tapping his chest lightly.
"Not flattery. Fact," he said, eyes tracing the curve of her jaw as his hands traced her curves
---
Meanwhile, in a private training chamber, Kiel struck at a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. The bag swung violently under the force of his blows, the thuds echoing off reinforced walls. At sixteen, Kiel's body was honed like a weapon, shoulders square, legs rooted, fists precise. He trained in Shotokan Karate, a style popular in the U.S. for its emphasis on linear strikes and deep stances, perfect for building explosive power and precision.
His movements were rapid yet controlled: jabs snapping like gunfire, spinning back fists, low stances shifting like a predator. Sweat glistened across his brow. Every strike was measured, calculated, a reflection of Matt's mantra: "Precision before power. Control before chaos."
Overseeing him was Brian Vitale, Matt's loyal retainer, cousin and Kiel's elder-brother figure. Towering at 6'4", his muscles evident even under streetwear - a black fitted t-shirt, dark cargo jeans, and reinforced sneakers. Brian's presence was magnetic. His cropped black hair framed a chiseled face, scarred faintly from years of street battles. His arms crossed, eyes sharp, he observed every movement.
"Your hip is dropping too early on that spinning back fist," Brian pointed out, voice calm but authoritative. "You're telegraphing your strike. Control it. Faster rotation, keep your core tight."
Kiel nodded, adjusting instantly, swinging again. The bag swung harder, yet this time his strikes flowed smoother, more deadly.
"Better," Brian murmured, stepping closer. "Your footwork… see how you're overextending on the left jab? Reset your stance after each combination. You must move like water, but hit like stone."
Kiel's fists continued to fly, his breaths controlled, every move echoing years of discipline. Martial arts here wasn't for sport; it was survival. Each punch, each kick, each stance was drilled not just into his body but into his instincts. By the time he dropped into a low guard stance, the sweat streaked down his temple, his arms shaking, Brian's approving nod was the only reward he gave.
Outside, the Velvet Dominion's marquee flickered against the night sky. Street lights reflected off the wet asphalt, neon bouncing off chrome bumpers of parked cars. Prostitutes in heels and sequined outfits called to late-night patrons, while black SUVs idled near the curb, security men in dark suits scanning the surroundings, sunglasses reflecting the city lights.
Inside the club, the music changed; now a slower, sultry R&B track, "Velvet Nights", filled the upper floors. Laughter rippled as two women spun on a tiny stage, coins clinking into cups held by businessmen in sharp suits. Conversations mingled:
"Red shipment's gone through?"
"Yeah, nothing to report. Smoothest run this month."
A lot of voices chatting filled the room.
Matt's laughter echoed through his office, a sound both warm and dangerous, before he leaned back to sip his whiskey. Shayla traced a finger along his arm, her smile soft.
"Do you ever think he'll be ready?" she asked quietly, nodding toward the training room door.
"He has to be," Matt said, jaw tight, eyes distant. "If not, none of this matters. The Nunca-Caer name dies with me."
In the basement, the card games intensified. Higher-ranking members debated business moves, whispered over stacks of cash, and made bets that could cost a man his life. One man laughed, slapping the felt: "You bluffing again, Ricci? I know that hand!" Another leaned close, murmuring conspiratorial strategies to a partner in cigars and whiskey.
Back in the training room, Brian finally called an end to Kiel's session. He gestured toward the punching bag, now hanging still, and Kiel's chest rose and fell with controlled exertion.
"You did well tonight," Brian said. "But remember, speed isn't enough. Precision. Control. Patience. That's what keeps a man alive."
Kiel nodded silently, wiping sweat from his brow. The lesson, the warning, was clear. Out there, in the world of men who killed without thought, it wasn't enough to be strong. One had to be smarter, faster, ghostly.
The night wore on, the club alive with music, lights, and lust. However, in the world of Underworld, it was almost impossible for there to be calm.