“Do you ever sleep, Matteo?”The question landed soft, like the heat of a cigarette pressed to a palm. Matteo didn’t answer at first. The room smelled of cheap tobacco and stale espresso. Outside, rain tattooed the cafe’s metal awning. Inside, the light was forgiving enough to hide tiredness and thin enough to show the edges of a man who had not forgiven the world yet.Across the table, Cesare Romano folded his hands like a man who had never once been wrong about anything. The suit fit him like armor. The linen shirt suggested wealth; the tilt of his chin announced menace. He was called many things across Naples, but tonight he wore the nickname with an ease that made Matteo feel younger and twice as foolish.“You look like you belong in the ground,” Cesare said. “Not here sipping wine. It offends the dead.”Matteo looked down at his cup. Steam rose in a thin column and disappeared. He could have struck the man at that moment, ended the conversation with a movement as clean as a blade

The Rossi estate sat on the cliffs of Amalfi like a crown made of shadows. From the sea below, it lookedeternal—white marble soaked in moonlight, the kind of beauty that hid its rot well. Inside, the wallswhispered in the dark. Every portrait, every gilded mirror still held the reflection of a family that pretendedit was immortal.Matteo Rossi stood at the base of the grand staircase, staring up at his father’s portrait. Giancarlo Rossi.The man who taught him how to survive and destroy, sometimes in the same breath. The old Don’s eyesstared down through oil and varnish, heavy with judgment.“Still watching me,” Matteo murmured.He had returned after seven years of exile and silence. Seven years of ghosts. Seven years since the fire thathad burned away everything he thought he was. Now, he was here not to beg, but to reclaim.A butler approached nervously. “The guests are waiting in the great hall, Signor Rossi.”Matteo straightened the collar of his black shirt. “Let them wait.

“Power doesn’t make you free. It just changes the size of your cage.”The morning in Naples broke like an old scar reopening. Pale sunlight slipped between the curtains of Matteo Rossi’s penthouse, washing over marble floors and the half-empty glass of bourbon on the table. The city was already awake horns, sirens, a distant church bell but inside, there was only silence and smoke.Matteo stood by the window, shirtless, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger. His body told a story his mouth refused to cuts, burns, and bruises that had healed wrong. Scars were the only honesty left in his life.Carlo entered quietly, the smell of cigarettes following him. “You haven’t slept.”“I don’t sleep,” Matteo said without turning.Carlo walked closer, his boots echoing against marble. “You should. A man who doesn’t sleep starts making mistakes.”Matteo turned now, eyes hollow but sharp. “Then I guess I’m long past saving.”Carlo hesitated, then placed a file on the table. “We got a p

“Power is a crown forged in fire—and worn with blood.”The night in Palermo felt colder than usual. The sky was thick with clouds that rolled like smoke from a funeral pyre, and the streets glimmered wet with rain. Matteo Rossi stood on the balcony of the Palazzo Bellini, the new headquarters of his growing empire. Below him, the city breathed—cars, sirens, the quiet hum of a city that no longer feared God but men like him.Inside, the grand hall was alive with movement. The “Lion’s Court” had grown into something more,a political theatre of wolves dressed in suits. Bottles popped, laughter echoed, and every smile hid a knife. Tonight wasn’t celebration. It was coronation. Matteo was no longer a street soldier. He was Il Signore. The men who once served under him now bent their heads when he entered the room.He wore black tonight—tailored silk, cufflinks shaped like lions. The kind of man who looked untouchable, even as his soul began to bleed underneath.“Matteo,” Enzo said, appeari

“Before a man becomes king, he must first learn how to bury the dead he loved.”Rain fell hard over the outskirts of Rome, drumming against the hood of Matteo Rossi’s black Maserati as it idled on a narrow mountain road. The headlights cut through the mist, catching the edges of a half-collapsed monastery ahead the place where his brother, Luca, was rumored to be hiding.The drive from Palermo had been silent. Enzo sat in the passenger seat, checking the chamber of his pistol, his jaw tight. Behind them, two SUVs waited in the dark, engines purring like restless beasts.Matteo hadn’t spoken since dawn. His thoughts were a war, the sound of his brother’s laughter tangled with the echo of his betrayal.“You sure about this?” Enzo asked finally, voice rough. “If it’s really him…”“It is,” Matteo said. “And I’m ending it tonight.”Enzo glanced at him. “You mean kill him?”Matteo’s eyes stayed on the road ahead. “If I have to.”He stepped out into the cold rain. The air smelled of pine and