Matteo's POV
Milan looks like sin dressed in diamonds.
From my penthouse, the city sprawls beneath me—gold lights bleeding into the dark, thunder crawling slow and lazy across the sky. I love her like I love a dangerous woman: beautiful, unpredictable, mine to command.
Below, the docks never sleep. Trucks roll out from warehouses under my name, bribes change hands faster than prayers. My city hums with vice and money—two things that always find their way home to me.
The room behind me breathes tension. Six of my men sit around the long table, smoke curling toward the ceiling, whiskey breathing heat into the air. The smell of gun oil lingers, faint but familiar. I swirl my glass, take a slow sip, and let silence do what bullets can't—make them sweat.
"Explain to me," I say, voice even, "how the shipment vanished between Marseille and Genoa."
Tomaso shifts in his seat. He's young, eager—still thinks loyalty alone can keep him alive.
"There was an inspection, boss. French customs got lucky. We'll reroute, no big—"
My hand stills midair.
No big deal.
I set the glass down gently. "Say that again."
He freezes. The others stop breathing. I can feel the pulse of fear, sharp and alive—the way a wolf smells blood before the wound opens.
I don't raise my voice. I just smile, slow and deliberate, and drive the knife into the table—an inch from his hand. The sound cracks the silence like thunder splitting the sky.
"I built an empire on the things you call small," I murmur. "You'll fix it, Tomaso. Or I'll take your tongue as collateral. You won't need it if you can't speak sense."
He nods, pale as milk. I withdraw the blade, clean it with my handkerchief, and lift my glass again.
"To efficiency," I toast.
The others echo me—shaky, desperate.
That's the thing about loyalty in my world—it's not earned only through trust. It's bred through fear and fascination. They don't know if I'll make them rich or bury them. That's why they stay.
The men talk shop for a few more minutes—routes, alibis, the one contact in Marseille who still owes us a favor. When the operational part of the night is done, they peel away like tidewater from rock: Tomaso and Paolo to the docks, the others to their cars, their footsteps fading down the hall.
The air lightens as the bodies leave—until it's just me and the one man who never walks out with excuses.
Luca.
My consigliere. My second. My oldest friend.
The one man who doesn't flinch beneath my gaze.
He pours himself a drink, the sound of whiskey against glass sharp in the quiet. "You're going to want to hear this," he says.
I raise a brow, motioning for him to go on.
"It's about the Romanos," he says carefully. "And the Bianchis. There's been an announcement—a marriage alliance."
The words hang there, heavy and poisonous. My mind runs the math before my heart catches up. Two families with too much ambition and not enough history, binding their empires with blood.
Something cold and ugly coils in my chest. "Who?"
He hesitates—just long enough to piss me off.
"Say it."
"It's Isabella Romano. She's been promised to Damiano Bianchi."
For a heartbeat, everything goes still. The rain starts to whisper against the windows, then builds, drumming louder until it sounds like the city itself is holding its breath.
Isabella Romano.
The name hits like a fist. I just breathe—slow, sharp, deliberate.
Then I laugh once. Short. Bitter. "Of course. A deal sealed with a wedding. Old men playing gods with their children's throats."
I take another drink. The whiskey burns down my throat, and I let it. Pain focuses me—it always has.
Her name tastes like smoke.
The little girl with wild hair and scraped knees in the vineyards of Naples. The one who swore she'd never bow to anyone, not even her father.
I remember one afternoon, the sun bleeding over the hills, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with mischief.
"When we're grown, you'll be a king," she'd said.
"And you'll be my queen," I told her. "I swear it on my blood."
Now I grip my glass until my knuckles ache. That girl—my Isa—has been promised to a man who breaks whatever he touches.
"She doesn't belong to him," I say quietly.
Luca doesn't look surprised. He's been through all of it with me—the wars, the women, the nights I tried to drink her ghost away. He's the only one who knows she's the scar I never learned to stop tracing.
He studies me for a long moment before speaking. "She never belonged to anyone, Matteo. That's what you loved about her."
My gaze flicks to him. "Maybe so. But I'll be damned if I watch Bianchi chain her to his throne."
Luca's voice drops lower. "If you're digging her back up… maybe it's time we also dig into why your family and hers really went to war. Because what we were told—it never quite added up."
I meet his gaze, a cold hum settling in my chest. "Maybe I'll find my answers with her."
He watches me, weighing my resolve. "You want me to move?"
"Not yet," I say, setting my drink down. "First, we learn."
I walk to the window. The city stretches before me—gold, cruel, glittering. A thousand lights blink like eyes, watching me decide who burns next.
"Damiano Bianchi," I say, tasting the name like venom. "Find out everything about this arrangement. Dates. Signatures. Who signed. Who profits."
Luca hesitates. "You're not thinking of—"
"I'm thinking," I said, turning the name on my tongue like a blade, "that the Bianchis are about to discover how the Costas answer those who take what isn't theirs to take."
He says nothing. He doesn't have to. The look in his eyes says he knows I won't stop.
"She was mine once," I whisper. "And I don't give away what's mine."
Luca nods once, silent understanding passing between us. Then he leaves, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
For a long time, I just stand there—listening to the storm grow teeth.
Finally, I open the drawer beside my desk. Inside lies a silver pendant shaped like a wolf—its surface worn smooth, the chain a little tarnished. Isabella's gift. She'd pressed it into my hand when we were thirteen, after my father's funeral.
"For courage," she'd said. "So you never forget who you are."
My thumb brushes over the metal now. Outside, lightning slices the sky in two. My reflection stares back at me through the glass—sharp suit, darker eyes, a smile that doesn't belong to a man but to something older. Something hungrier.
"I promised you, piccola stella," I murmur. "And I keep my promises."
Thunder rolls across the city, deep and guttural—a warning Milan will ignore.
The Devil is awake.
And he's never been better at keeping his word.