The rain fell hard over Milan, washing blood into the gutters.Thunder cracked above the skyline, echoing through the narrow alleys like the growl of a vengeful god. Neon lights bled into the slick pavement, but here, where shadows ruled, there was no mercy—only death.A man knelt in the alley, his hands tied behind his back, his expensive suit torn and soaked. He sobbed against the gag stuffed in his mouth, his muffled cries drowned out by the storm. The smell of iron, smoke, and fear hung thick in the air.Adrian DeLuca didn’t beg. He didn’t cry. He watched.His dark eyes, cold as the steel pressed against his temple, studied every face in the circle of men surrounding him. He recognized them all—men who once toasted wine with his father at family tables, men who had kissed the DeLuca ring, swearing loyalty until their dying breath. Now, they dragged him into this alley, thinking tonight would be his end.The capo leaned in close, cigar clamped between his teeth, his breath thick wit

CHAPTER 2The city had barely shaken off the dawn when Adrian Morgan arrived at the sleek glass doors of Westcourt Chambers. His reflection—the same perfect hair, the same colder-than-marble eyes—looked back. No sign of DeLuca. Still, the phantom of that name whispered in the syntax of his veins.Inside, he ducked into his office: minimalist, elegant, a contrast to the chaos of courtroom showdowns. Bookshelves slotted with law texts, folders stacked like silent sentries, and across the desk, a single photo—his mother, smiling in exile, long ago. He reached for it, hesitated, then tucked it face-down. Discipline was a blade he wielded daily.A soft knock broke the moment.“Client’s vehicle is here,” his assistant said. “Security flagged two men outside who’ve been loitering by your car since morning.”Adrian didn’t flinch. The public eye had adored his courtroom performance; only a few watched him uncloak off-stage. He walked out, past the doors without looking. Outside, the two men rem

CHAPTER 4The morning sun had not yet risen over Milan, but the city was already awake—its veins pulsing with the low hum of traffic, the distant wail of a siren, the quiet stir of lives beginning anew. In the penthouse perched high above the chaos, silence reigned like a held breath.Then came the soft knock at the door.Adrian didn’t turn from the floor-to-ceiling window where he stood, barefoot, wrapped in a black robe, watching the sky bleed from indigo to gray. He knew who it was.“Enter,” he said, voice low, unshaken.The door opened, and in stepped Calvin Carroll—lean, sharp-eyed, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that whispered of quiet authority. His dark hair was cropped close, his posture rigid with discipline. He carried a tablet in one hand and a manila folder in the other. But it wasn’t the documents that defined him—it was the scar that ran from his left temple down to his jawline, a jagged reminder of the night Adrian had pulled him from the mouth of death.Ten years

CHAPTER 6The DeLuca name was not just a surname in Milan—it was a verdict. When men spoke it in darkened taverns or in the cramped backrooms of cafes, they did so in hushed tones, as if the syllables themselves could summon a shadow in the doorway. The family had built an empire upon fear, an empire that reached beyond the alleys and piazzas of the city, spilling into Rome, Naples, Palermo. Wherever there was blood to be spilled, money to be laundered, or loyalty to be bought, the DeLucas had a hand in it. To outsiders, they were myth. To Milan, they were reality—brutal, inescapable, and eternal.Adrian had spent years trying to escape that reality. But sitting now in the warehouse safe house, staring at the documents scattered across the table, he realized that no matter how far he had run, the shadow of the DeLuca crest followed him like a curse. The papers bore names, numbers, offshore accounts, secret vaults, bribes, and murders disguised as suicides. They were more than ledgers.

CHAPTER 8Power wore a tailored suit that morning—precise, cold, impossible to ignore. In the glass of Via Montenapoleone the reflection was flawless: boutiques glittering with impossible timepieces, men and women moving like chess pieces. And in the middle of it all, Studio Legale Vero breathed its quiet threat—no neon and no proclamation—only steel and glass that made passersby slow, the air around it humming like a barely contained charge.Nobody outside suspected the truth: this law firm was a crafted illusion, an argument built to persuade the city itself. Everything about it was real enough to make disbelief ridiculous—credentials, alumni lists, bar admissions, references that scraped clean through background checks—yet beneath the surface the paper was a blade and the blade was sharp.Adrian Morgan didn’t enter rooms so much as take them over. He moved like a man who had made the world understand that losing was not an option. Prosecutors saw his name and rechecked their strateg