"Don't move, Matteo. One more inch, and you'll only quicken your heart rate and spread that poison faster through your brain."A cold, intimidating voice suddenly broke the silence from the dark corner of Matteo’s apartment, which should have been empty. Matteo De Luca froze in the doorway, key still hanging in the lock. In the gloom, he smelled neither gas nor gunpowder, but rather a strange, sweet aroma, like roasted bitter almonds."Who are you?" Matteo hissed. His hand slowly moved towards his jacket pocket, aiming for the phone he’d prepared as a panic button. One long press on the volume button, and all the Volkov Clan corruption data would be uploaded to a public server."Breathe slowly, Prosecutor," the voice returned, followed by the rhythmic sound of boot steps on the wooden floor. "If you're looking for your phone, I'm afraid it's no more useful than a doorstop now. The signal here is dead, and more importantly, your finger muscles will give out very soon."Matteo tried to

If you want me to be a monster, Elias...then I will give you a monster that you've never imagined in your worst nightmares.He doesn't need a court to punish the Volkov Clan. He doesn't need search warrants or terrified witnesses. He needs power. Power that can bring kings to their knees. Power that knows no mercy.He will take everything Elias possesses. His money, his influence, his throne, and eventually, his life. But he won't do it from behind a clean legal table. He will do it from the shadows, from a place where the law dares not tread.Matteo took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his lungs."Goodbye, Prosecutor De Luca," he whispered to himself, his voice now sounding like a sharp metal rasp.A new chapter had begun. The man lying in this bed might have a broken body, but his soul had been re-forged in hellfire. He would no longer pursue justice. He would pursue dominance.Matteo stared at his bandaged hands. Slowly, he clenched his fingers, ignoring the stinging pain as th

The smoke from the Cohiba cigar curled in the air like a dancing ghost beneath the crystal chandelier of the Volkov family mansion. Elias Volkov leaned his head back against the plush leather chair, letting the warmth of a thirty-year-old whisky coat his throat. Before him, the sweeping view of the city at night looked like scattered jewels—and all of it lay beneath the heel of his polished shoe."The world is far quieter without the noisy clamour for justice shouted by that boy," Elias murmured, his lips curving into a thin, dismissive smile."Matteo De Luca is finished, Sir," replied a lean man in a charcoal grey suit sitting opposite him. This was Viktor, the Consigliere known as the architect behind the Volkov Clan's money laundering operations. "The hospital reports he's suffering from severe depression. He refuses to speak, refuses to eat. His idealistic character shattered along with his apartment. He's no longer a threat, just historical refuse waiting to be discarded."Elias

Matteo De Luca stared at the scrap of paper in his hand as though it were a hot coal, ready to scald his palm again. The message was short, but its sharp edges cut through the thick jacket he was wearing."Welcome back, Matteo. I've prepared a deeper grave for you this time. – E.V."The roar of the motorboat engine he’d just ignited sounded like a wild beast growling in the silent Venetian canal. Matteo let go of the steering wheel, allowing the boat to drift slowly and bump against the wooden dock. His head spun wildly. How did Elias know? Since when?He turned towards Vincenzo’s catering shop, which he had just left. The neon light inside was still flickering, casting long shadows that looked like ghostly fingers creeping over the water. If Elias knew he was here, then Vincenzo—the only remaining witness to history—was in mortal danger."Bastard," Matteo hissed. His hoarse voice was swallowed by the sounds of the canal water.He didn't race the boat away. Instead, he jumped back ont

Florence at dawn was a cold grey canvas. The fog from the Arno crept through the gaps in the stone streets, carrying a damp chill that bit to the bone. In the basement of the Il Silenzioso bookshop, there was no morning tranquillity. Only the sound of ragged breaths, the heavy thud of flesh against the punching bag, and Nico Santoro's cold voice dissecting every error."Again, Maestro. You attack like an amateur brawler in a pub fight," Nico hissed. He stood with his arms crossed, his eyes as cold as ice, showing not a hint of mercy as he watched Matteo crumple for the fifth time that morning.Matteo hauled himself back up. Sweat soaked his body, making the bandages still wrapped around his wounds feel heavy and itchy. The pain in his previously broken ribs felt like a knife thrust with every deep breath. The mangled left side of his face throbbed in time with his racing heart."Anger is poor fuel for a precision machine," Nico continued, circling Matteo like a wolf around wounded pre