The rain never stopped in San Merlo — a city drowned in blood money, passion, and betrayal.
Luca Moretti, thirty-eight, was the devil in an Armani suit. Cold, calculated, and ruthless, he was the heartbeat of the Moretti crime family. The streets whispered his name like a prayer and a curse. He had survived assassination attempts, DEA raids, and a full-blown cartel war—but he wasn't ready for her.
Maya Black.
A gambler. A hustler. A player in every sense — cards, men, fate. She had that look. Dangerous eyes, like she was always lying even when she wasn't speaking. Her curves could start wars, but it was her mind that truly killed.
Luca met her at an underground poker game in a high-rise hotel above the city slums. She was already in deep, sitting between two cartel lords and a crooked senator, bluffing with nothing but charm and cigarette smoke.
He watched her. She knew he was watching. And still, she stripped them all — of money, pride, and sanity.
Later that night, he followed her.
She let him.
---
They fucked like war.
Raw. Violent. Addictive.
He tasted cocaine on her lips and blood on her tongue. Her thighs were soft velvet wrapped in razor wire. In his penthouse, the windows steamed as she rode him like a storm, whispering lies into his ear, each more beautiful than the last.
"I don't do love," she told him.
"Good," he said. "I do possession."
---
Weeks passed, and she became his obsession.
He showed her his empire — the ports, the labs, the tunnels that ran beneath San Merlo like the veins of a beast. She watched it all with a smile. Never fear. Never love. Just curiosity.
She gave him ecstasy under cathedral lights.
He gifted her blood diamonds.
She licked the knife he used to kill a snitch.
He whispered his deepest fears into her womb.
It wasn't love. It was annihilation.
---
But Luca's empire was burning from within.
His brother, Antonio, had struck a secret deal with the Venezuelan cartel to eliminate him. The cops, both corrupt and incorrupt, were closing in. His right-hand man, Vic, was skimming millions and blaming Maya.
Luca was blinded.
By breasts. By betrayal. By beauty.
The drugs got purer. The money got heavier. The sex turned darker.
Until one night, she vanished.
---
Three weeks later, Maya returned.
In a red dress. With a sniper's aim.
She walked into Luca's private club, holding a briefcase full of dead evidence and a gun that screamed treachery.
"You killed my sister," she said.
Luca blinked. "What sister?"
"Veronica Black. DEA undercover. Five years ago. Tortured. Dismembered. Dumped like trash."
He paled.
"She loved you. She believed in you. You cut out her tongue."
And then Maya pulled the trigger.
But the bullet didn't hit Luca.
It hit Vic, who had been aiming at Luca's back the whole time.
Maya turned to Luca. "You don't die by me tonight. You live with me."
---
They ran.
From the law. From the cartels. From themselves.
Across borders, bullets, and back-alley motels.
Each night was a promise and a lie — of pain, sweat, and limbs tangled in violent passion.
She loved him now. She hated him more.
He didn't know if he wanted to protect her… or kill her slowly with kisses.
---
War erupted in San Merlo.
Antonio rose to power. The Moretti empire crumbled. Streets turned red with betrayal.
Luca had one plan left — The Vault.
An off-grid bunker deep under the city containing $270 million in untraceable cash, rare diamonds, and incriminating files on every political snake that ever shook his hand.
But he never made it there.
One night, in an abandoned subway, as they neared the entrance, Maya kissed him.
Slow. Sweet. Final.
Then she stabbed him.
Once. Twice. Then a third time, deep and personal.
"I loved you. That was my mistake."
She left him bleeding in the dark, eyes wide, lips trembling, trying to speak her name.
But she never looked back.
---
Three weeks later…
San Merlo's skyline was smoke and ashes. The war ended with arrests, deaths, and silence.
Maya Black? Gone.
Luca Moretti? Vanished.
The Vault? Never found.
---
Until...
A man with no name, barefoot and reeking of bourbon, stumbled into an abandoned alley while chasing his lost dog.
He tripped on rusted steel.
He tugged.
A hatch opened.
And there, beneath layers of dust and time, glimmered the last pile of hidden cash — bags of green stacked to the ceiling, sealed with the Moretti crest.
The man stood there, stunned.
A laugh escaped his throat.
Then he shut the hatch.
And walked away.
No cops. No gangs. No witnesses.
Just the silence of a city that thought it knew everything.
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TO BE CONTINUED...