The Lucente villa was not merely a house.
It was a kingdom built of marble, gold, and blood.
From the moment Akira passed through its gates, he felt its presence pressing down on him. The iron gates loomed tall, their intricate patterns etched with suns, lions, and blades — symbols of dominance that screamed of the family's creed. Beyond them stretched a driveway paved in dark stone that gleamed as though polished daily. Black cars, sleek and armored, lined the path like a silent fleet of soldiers.
The villa itself rose at the end of the drive, breathtaking in its intimidation. Columns of pale marble supported a facade carved with angels and suns, but there was nothing heavenly about it. Every stone whispered of money laundered, enemies buried, fortunes built upon suffering. Water cascaded from tiered fountains at the entrance, splashing into crystal basins where koi swam lazily, their golden scales glinting beneath sunlight.
Guards flanked the doors. They stood in black suits, shoulders broad, faces carved from stone, earpieces glinting. Their gazes tracked every movement with the sharpness of men who could kill before hesitation reached thought.
Akira kept his head slightly bowed as he passed. Inside, his chest was thunder. Do not falter. This is the path you chose.
The doors opened into a world of suffocating opulence.
The scent struck first — a blend of aged wine, cigar smoke, leather so richly conditioned it seemed alive, and underneath it all, a faint metallic tang. Guns. Blood. Violence clinging to the very air.
Chandeliers dripped with crystal, scattering light across marble floors patterned in sunbursts of gold and white. Thick carpets muted footsteps, their fibers plush beneath polished shoes. Every hallway was guarded, every turn patrolled. Paintings lined the walls — Renaissance masterpieces, saints and martyrs staring down with eyes that seemed to weep at their placement in a house of sinners.
Akira's steps echoed faintly, each one rehearsed, measured. The weight of disguise pressed on him like armor. Not Akiri. Not the fragile girl he once was. He was Akira now — an Omega hidden as a man, a servant disguised as prey, a blade concealed in silk.
You must walk as though you belong. No hesitation. No weakness.
The steward leading him finally stopped before tall doors of dark wood carved with sun motifs. He knocked once, then opened them with a bow.
"Your new personal attendant," he announced.
And Akira saw him.
Salvatore Lucente.
Time had not softened him — it had only sharpened every edge. He sat behind a vast desk of mahogany, posture one of effortless command, like a lion at rest yet ready to strike. His suit was immaculate, black tailored to perfection, the fabric pulling across broad shoulders honed by years of strength and discipline. His hair was darker now, swept back neatly, a touch longer near the temples. A faint scar marked his jaw — not disfiguring, but adding to the aura of danger that clung to him.
But it was his eyes that rooted Akira to the ground.
Emerald green, cold and cutting. Eyes that once belonged to a boy who destroyed Akira's world. Eyes that had glanced past her eight years ago and unknowingly ignited an obsession that neither time nor bloodshed could kill.
Akira lowered his head instantly, hiding the heat that surged in his chest. Do not reveal yourself. He cannot know you. Not yet.
Salvatore leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering with unsettling weight.
"What is your name?" The voice was deep, velvet wrapped around steel.
"Akira, sir."
The name left his lips steady, yet behind it echoed the ghost of another: Akiri.
Salvatore tilted his head slightly, studying. His silence was heavier than words. The sound of the clock on the wall, the faint crackle of a cigar burning in the ashtray, even the muffled footsteps of guards outside — all faded until only that gaze remained.
"You look… familiar," Salvatore said finally.
A blade of ice slid through Akira's chest. Too soon. Too sharp. Control yourself.
He bowed deeper, voice smooth. "I served a foreign house before, sir. Perhaps that is why."
A lie wrapped in truth. The cadence was careful, rehearsed until it sounded natural.
Salvatore's lips curved — not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous. Suspicion, amusement, interest.
"We'll see if you're worth keeping," he murmured.
His hand gestured lazily toward a crystal decanter of deep red wine on the desk. The steward stepped back, making no move to assist. A test.
Akira moved forward, every action precise. He lifted the decanter without trembling, tilted it at the perfect angle, poured until the liquid touched the rim without spilling a single drop. He set the glass down before Salvatore, then withdrew half a step — not too close, not too far.
Salvatore's fingers brushed the stem of the glass deliberately slowly, as though testing not the wine but the servant who delivered it.
For one long moment, silence burned.
And then Salvatore lifted the glass, swirling the liquid, watching Akira through its crimson swirl. He drank.
Akira bowed his head lower, hiding the storm inside.
For beneath the surface, something dangerous was stirring. The same pull, faint but undeniable, that had existed eight years ago when his eyes first fell upon Akiri.
Inside, Akira whispered fiercely to himself: You cannot yield. Not to him. Not yet. This is only the beginning.
* * *
The casino was alive.
Lights flashed in chaotic rhythm, bouncing off mirrored walls and gilded columns. Every corner was saturated with color, scent, and sound: the red of velvet carpets, the green felt of gaming tables, the gold of coins stacked in precarious towers. The air was thick with smoke, the pungent sweetness of cigars blending with perfume, sweat, and the sharp tang of alcohol. The mingling aromas carried a subtle undertone of fear — desperation hiding beneath bravado, hope battling against loss.
Elena Kurosawa stepped carefully onto the casino floor. Every inch of her body screamed practiced elegance. Her uniform clung in a manner both professional and deliberately disarming: a fitted black vest over a crisp white shirt, tie knotted perfectly, skirt pressed and hemmed to the ideal length. Shoes clicked against polished floors, each step measured, graceful, invisible yet impossible to ignore.
Inside, her thoughts churned like storm-tossed waves.
I cannot falter. Every glance, every smile, every tilt of my head is part of the act.
She remembered Akira's words from weeks ago: We will bring him down from inside.
Every memory of the past — of fire and blood, of whispered promises in the ruins of the Tsukiyo estate — fueled her determination. This was no longer play-acting. This was war, wrapped in silk and smiles.
Her first table was crowded with gamblers flushed with money, liquor, and false confidence. Men leaned close, murmuring about luck, about the Don, about fortunes to be made. She moved her hands across the deck with fluid precision, flicking cards between fingers like a magician, allowing them to slide over felt as if the table itself obeyed her will.
A man leaned in, trying to catch her gaze. She smiled lightly, polite, disarming. Her pulse spiked. Do not let him see through you. Not yet.
A server brought a tray of glasses near her table, the clink of crystal mingling with the sharp shuffle of cards. Elena caught the scent of whiskey, mingled with the faint metallic tang of spilled coins. Her own breath came shallow, barely audible beneath her careful facade.
The casino was alive, but she was alive in a different way — every nerve stretched tight, every sense alert, every instinct screaming danger.
And then he appeared.
Salvatore Lucente.
She did not see him approach first — only felt the air shift, like a predator had entered the room. Guards straightened instinctively. Dealers paused, hands frozen over chips and cards. Conversation faltered mid-word. The scent of expensive cologne carried to her across the room, mingling with something darker: authority, danger, and a pull she could not resist.
Her heart skipped.
He moved with a predator's grace, silent in his dominance. Every step measured, controlled, every gaze capable of crushing or claiming. Elena forced herself to smile, tilting her head in practiced charm. Do not tremble. Do not falter.
From across the casino floor, he scanned the room, eyes cutting like a blade. And then — they found her.
Elena felt her chest tighten. Her hands, resting lightly on the table, felt suddenly heavy. Breath caught. Yet the mask did not crack. She leaned slightly closer over the felt, allowing the faintest curve of her lips, the softest shimmer of her lashes — but nothing more.
Salvatore stopped before her table. The crowd around him seemed to melt away, leaving only him and her, a sea of eyes reduced to background noise. He gestured toward the chair nearest him with a lazy flick of a hand, motioning as though she were already his subordinate, his property, though she was neither.
Her stomach knotted, yet she moved with deliberate grace. Cards flicked beneath her fingers like liquid silk, chips stacking in perfect towers. She felt the invisible pull of his presence: magnetic, terrifying, intoxicating. Do not succumb. You are here for Akira. For revenge.
Around her, the casino buzzed with excitement and fear. A small group of Lucente lieutenants hovered near, their eyes sharp, watching the interaction. One man leaned toward her, whispering casually, "The boss notices talent."
Elena smiled, keeping her voice low and melodic. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best."
The words were polite. The thoughts beneath them were war: I must survive this. I must lure him close. I must not fail Akira.
Every card she dealt was an extension of herself — each shuffle, each flick of the wrist, each glance toward him was measured, calculated, rehearsed. She allowed her body to suggest softness, her eyes to glimmer briefly with amusement, but never too long. Not enough to betray what lay beneath.
As Salvatore leaned forward, watching the table with a predatory calm, Elena felt the pull deepen. The same inexplicable resonance Akira felt when he was near him; the same magnetic draw that had left her breathless at first sight. Her pulse hammered violently. She forced herself to breathe slowly.
You are his prey only in appearance. Remember your role.
The game progressed. Cards slid from her fingers, chips stacked and redistributed, gamblers muttered prayers, curses, and bets. She allowed herself a single glance at the security cameras overhead, the pattern of guards, the layout of the room — everything became part of the plan. Every motion, every gesture, every smile was deliberate.
And Salvatore noticed.
The faintest flicker of recognition passed over his face — a curiosity that had nothing to do with cards or luck. He leaned back slightly, studying her. The sharpness in his eyes made her stomach coil. He was already calculating her worth, her threat, her charm — and she had barely begun her work.
Inside, Elena's thoughts waged war: fear, anticipation, adrenaline, loyalty, guilt, excitement. She stole a glance at the mirrored wall behind the bar and caught her own reflection: calm, collected, charming. Behind the mask, her heart was a storm.
Do not break. Not yet. Not until Akira is ready.
The night stretched long. The casino pulsed around her — lights flickering, chips clinking, dice rolling — but all she could hear was the silent rhythm of her own heartbeat and the slow, inevitable approach of the man she had been tasked to entrap.
Salvatore finally leaned forward across the table. "You are new," he said, voice low, commanding attention without shouting.
"Yes, sir," Elena replied softly, smoothly, letting the timbre of her voice cradle him like silk.
"And talented," he continued, his green eyes sharp. "Not many could command a table like this on their first week."
A flicker of pride surged — quickly suppressed. Do not celebrate. Do not let him see delight.
"Thank you, sir," she said, inclining her head with grace, hiding the tremor in her fingers.
He smirked faintly. Dangerous. I notice everything, he seemed to say with that smile. And she knew he did.