The city always knew when he was awake.
Not because of sirens or gunshots—those came later—but because everything slowed. Shop owners lowered their voices. Drivers checked their mirrors twice. Men who thought they were powerful suddenly remembered they were not.
Montenegro City breathed carefully on mornings like this.
The black cars arrived just after dawn, sliding into the narrow street like shadows with engines. No horns. No rush. Just quiet dominance. People pretended not to stare, but everyone did. You didn't need to ask who had come. The answer lived in the tension curling through the air.
Inside the lead car, Don Aurelio De Luca sat perfectly still.
He didn't look angry. That was the dangerous part.
His suit was immaculate—dark, expensive, tailored to a body that carried authority without effort. One hand rested loosely on the armrest, the other tapping once, slowly, against his knee. Each tap marked a second someone else was wasting.
"Late," he said.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
In the front seat, Marco—his driver—felt his throat tighten. "They're preparing the room now, sir."
Aurelio's eyes lifted, cold and sharp. "So they prepared excuses before preparing respect."
Marco said nothing after that. Silence was safer.
The car stopped in front of a private club that pretended to be a restaurant. The sign outside promised music and laughter, but inside, no one laughed anymore. The guards rushed forward to open the door, hands shaking just enough to be noticeable.
Aurelio stepped out.
The street seemed to shrink around him.
Inside the club, men stood up so fast their chairs screeched against the floor. Some bowed their heads. Others forced smiles that never reached their eyes. These were men with money, with businesses, with reputations—but none of that mattered now.
Aurelio walked to the center of the room and stopped.
"Sit," he said.
They obeyed.
He didn't sit with them. He remained standing, looking down like a judge who already knew the verdict.
"I dislike repeating myself," Aurelio began calmly. "Last week, I gave a simple instruction. Profits were to be delivered by Friday night."
One man swallowed hard. "There were… complications."
Aurelio tilted his head slightly, as if considering something interesting. "Complications are what happen to people who disappoint me."
The room went silent.
He turned his gaze to a younger man at the end of the table. "You're new," Aurelio said. "What's your name?"
"L–Luca, sir."
"Luca," Aurelio repeated, tasting it. "Do you believe loyalty is a feeling or a choice?"
Luca hesitated. That was his first mistake.
Aurelio smiled faintly. "Wrong pause."
He snapped his fingers once.
No one saw what Marco whispered to the guards, but they all understood the meaning. Luca's face drained of color.
"Let me be clear," Aurelio said, his voice smooth as polished steel. "I don't rule with chaos. I rule with order. And order requires consequences."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. "Today is not about punishment. Today is about memory."
No blood was spilled. None was needed.
When Aurelio finally turned and walked away, the men remained frozen, afraid that moving too soon might call him back. Only when the door closed did they release the breath they had been holding.
Outside, the city exhaled—but not in relief.
Aurelio slid back into the car.
"Home," he said.
As the car pulled away, his reflection stared back at him from the tinted glass. For a brief moment—so brief it could have been imagined—his jaw tightened. Power demanded perfection. And perfection was exhausting.
Still, he would never loosen his grip.
Because the moment he did, the city would tear him apart.
And Aurelio De Luca did not believe in mercy—especially not for himself.