Chapter One – The Return
I walked into the city like a ghost of war.
And ghosts don't ask for permission.
Seven years gone. Seven years buried in the shithole corners of Europe, running guns in Serbia, laundering blood money through Kiev, dodging Interpol in Istanbul. Seven years since my own father put a bullet in my shoulder and told me to disappear.
But New York hadn't changed. It still reeked of piss, power, and promises no one intended to keep. My boots hit the pavement outside JFK like I'd never left. Like I'd never bled in the snow, never screamed in back alleys, never carved my way back here with tooth and claw.
The driver they sent wore black. The car was black. The windows, the gloves, the mood—everything was black.
"Mr. Romano," the man said, eyes not meeting mine. "The family's waiting."
Family. Right.
I slid into the back seat without a word. He didn't speak again. They never do when they know what's coming.
We passed under the bridge, where the old graffiti still screamed ROMANO BLEEDS BRONX. Someone had tried to spray over it, but the red paint still bled through.
Like me.
The mansion wasn't what it used to be. It crouched on the hillside like a dying lion, ivy choking its brick throat, windows like hollow eyes. A hundred men had died building it. Another hundred had died protecting it. And now?
It looked like it was waiting to be buried.
The guards didn't salute when I stepped out. Some nodded. Most just watched me, hands near their holsters, like they were expecting me to pull a fucking bomb out of my coat.
Smart.
I lit a cigarette with a steel Zippo. It had my name engraved on the side—LUCA. Gift from my mother. Before she choked to death on her own pills.
I blew smoke into the air and stepped through the double doors.
The first face I saw was my brother's.
Giovanni Romano. Slick hair, shark eyes, thousand-dollar suit stitched over a man who used to cry when we fed stray cats. Now he was head of the table. The crown. The king.
"Well," he said, standing slowly, arms wide like a priest at the altar, "if it isn't our prodigal son."
I smiled. A sharp thing. "Miss me, Gio?"
He laughed, but it was hollow. Everything about him was hollow. "You look like shit."
"War tends to do that."
He walked over, gripped my shoulder. I didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
He leaned in. "Father's dying."
"I know."
"So why now?"
I flicked ash onto the marble floor. "Because this family needs a wolf. Not a fucking weathervane."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
The old man lay in the upstairs room. Oxygen tube in his nose, monitors blinking like dying fireflies. I stood there a long time, staring at the man who once beat me for dropping his gun. Who taught me how to shoot before I could spell. Who ordered my exile like it was a fucking business deal.
His eyes cracked open.
"You're late."
"You tried to kill me."
"Didn't try hard enough, clearly." His chuckle turned into a coughing fit.
I didn't reach for his hand. I didn't feel pity. Just heat in my chest and the weight of unfinished wars.
"They're going to turn on each other," he rasped. "They already are."
"Then you should've kept your wolves on a leash."
He gripped my wrist with surprising strength.
"You're not here to play hero, Luca. You're here to survive."
"I never wanted the fucking throne."
"Then don't take it. Kill for it."
I left the room with my heart pounding like a war drum. Downstairs, the captains were gathering. All of them—old, young, loyal, and rotten to the core.
Then it happened.
A shot cracked through the air.
Glass shattered behind me. A second shot missed my head by inches. I dove behind the banister, drew my Glock from inside my coat, and returned fire. Screaming. Men scattering.
Giovanni ducked, face pale.
"Sniper!" someone yelled.
I rolled to the side, eyes scanning the window. Another flash of light. The sniper had position.
They knew I was coming. They fucking knew.
I kicked over a table, used it as cover, and shouted: "Find that bastard before I do!"
Blood on the floor. My hand shaking. Not from fear—from fury.
This wasn't a warning.
This was a declaration.
You bury a dog, he stays down.
You bury a wolf, and he digs up your fucking grave.