The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in thin, silvery sheets that blurred the neon lights of the harbor district and turned the streets into mirrors of broken glass. Inside the abandoned theater, where velvet curtains hung like bloodstained shrouds, the city’s most powerful men gathered for a private transaction that no law dared interrupt.They called it the Auction, though everyone knew what it really was—an exchange of flesh, loyalty, and fear.Antonio Moretti stood near the stage, his thick fingers tightening around a half-empty glass. His face, pitted and red, told the story of a man who had long traded conscience for coin. Once he had owned ships and respect; now he owned only debts. The girl in the cage behind the curtain was his final payment.“Keep your head down, bella,” he muttered over his shoulder, voice slurred. “Smile if they bid high.”Isabella Moretti obeyed, not because she feared him but because defiance had been beaten out of her years ago. At twenty, s

Night returned to the De Luca mansion like a memory that refused to fade. The rain had stopped, but mist clung to the gardens, softening the lights until they looked like dying stars. Inside, silence ruled—yet it was the kind of silence that hides movement.Lorenzo felt it before he saw it: the pulse of unrest that meant Marco was plotting again. He sat alone in his study, the ledger before him forgotten, the fire burning low. Each crackle sounded like a warning. In the reflection of the window, he could see his own face—tired, guarded, a man forced to fight the very blood that bound him.A knock came. “Enter,” he said.Rico, his oldest lieutenant, stepped inside. “Marco met with the Moretti man again. Private club by the harbor.”Lorenzo’s jaw hardened. “I told him to stay away from that drunk.”Rico hesitated. “There was talk of… business concerning the girl.”Lorenzo closed the ledger. “I see.” The calm in his voice was more frightening than anger. “Double the guards a

The city of Ravenport never slept, it only pretended to. Beneath its polished towers and waterfront cafés, old loyalties still whispered in the dark — the kind that could build empires or bury them.Far from the De Luca mansion, in an abandoned textile warehouse near the docks, Marco stood before a long wooden table. Half a dozen men sat around it, their faces hidden by smoke and distrust.He set his blood-stained sleeve on the table and spoke without preamble. “My brother has betrayed his name. He protects outsiders, spares enemies, weakens our house. If we let him continue, we become servants in our own kingdom.”A heavyset man with a scar across his jaw leaned forward. “You talk about loyalty, Marco. But Lorenzo controls the ports, the contracts, the guards. He pays us.”Marco smiled thinly. “He pays you with chains. I offer you freedom — and more gold than you’ve ever seen. The Moretti family stands with me now. Together, we’ll take back what’s ours.”The men murmured.

The mansion was quieter than usual, and that silence carried the weight of fear. Even the servants walked softly, their whispers dying before they could echo through the long marble halls. Somewhere, behind those closed doors, power was shifting again—quietly, dangerously.Lorenzo stood in the library before the great windows, the morning light fractured across the glass. A cup of untouched coffee cooled beside him. He hadn’t slept since the docks. Every movement in the house now sounded like a threat. Every familiar face could hide a dagger.He had seen the evidence of betrayal with his own eyes—the missing shipments, the coded messages, the false ledgers. Someone within had turned against him, and that someone had Marco’s scent all over it.The sound of footsteps broke the stillness. Isabella entered softly, her gaze cautious but steady. She carried a tray of breakfast she’d made herself, though she knew he wouldn’t eat.“You’ve been standing there since dawn,” she said quietly. “Yo

The De Luca mansion had always carried the scent of roses and gunpowder — a strange reminder that beauty and death could grow from the same soil. That night, as rain hammered against the tall windows, Lorenzo De Luca stood before the mirror in his father’s old office, fastening the silver cufflinks that once belonged to the man who built their empire.The air was heavy with smoke from the fireplace, but it did nothing to warm him. His reflection looked older than his years — not in face, but in spirit. The weight of betrayal and bloodshed had carved something hard behind his eyes.Matteo entered quietly. “The men are gathered in the chapel, boss.”Lorenzo didn’t look up. “How many?”“All of them. Even the old guards from Naples. They’re waiting for your word.”Lorenzo adjusted his tie, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. “Then it’s time.”---The chapel within the estate had once been a sanctuary — a place where the De Luca family came to pray for forgiveness. But tonight, it w