The next morning, dawn broke pale and heavy over the DeLuca estate. The city still smelled of smoke, remnants of the fire that had devoured the docks. The television channels buzzed with speculation about the "warehouse explosion" that claimed several lives, but no one dared to say the DeLuca name aloud. In their world, silence was a form of respect… or fear.
Aria stood by the balcony, her silk robe clinging to her like a second skin. Below her, the courtyard was crowded with men in black suits, their movements hushed and rigid. Matteo's death had sent ripples through the underworld. Some mourned him as a fallen prince; others whispered that Luca had crossed a line that no brother should. Either way, a storm was coming.
Behind her, Luca sat in the armchair, head bowed, a tumbler of whiskey untouched in his hand. He hadn't spoken much since last night. His eyes were swollen from sleeplessness, and there was a hollow weight to his presence, like the life had been wrung out of him.
