2025-10-11 14:10:52
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Chapter Twelve — The House of Smoke
“You ever wonder if we’re still men, Matteo?”The question came from Enzo, his voice rough, hoarse from a night of whiskey and ash. He stood by the balcony doors, watching the dawn crawl like spilled ink across the sky. The city below still smoked from the explosion at the southern docks, the strike Petrov had denied but everyone knew he’d ordered.Matteo didn’t answer immediately. He was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, eyes hollow with exhaustion. He poured two cups of espresso that looked as black as oil. “Men,” he finally said. “I’m not sure that word applies anymore.”He handed Enzo a cup. They stood in silence while the smell of burnt coffee mixed with the scent of rain-soaked marble. Naples had that kind of morning — heavy, metallic, alive in all the wrong ways.Enzo broke the quiet. “We hit Petrov’s accounts last night. Six million gone before sunrise. He’ll bleed, but he’ll hit back harder. And Luca… he was seen at the docks before the blast.”Matteo froze. “You’re sure?”“
Chapter Eleven — The Sons of War
“You came back to lead or to die, Matteo?”The question cut the air like a held breath. Matteo heard it as he watched the private jet descend through a curtain of rain, its lights like distant stars falling. He did not answer at once. He never did, not when the cost of speech could be measured in bullets or broken lives.Enzo stood at his shoulder while the hangar doors rumbled open, the cold wind slicing rain across their faces. “That’s Luca,” Enzo said, tone low. “He never learned how to ask lightly.”Matteo let the answer live in his chest. He had come back to take what had been taken from him. He had come to build something that would not be swallowed by fire. Yet every step toward a throne had the same weight: the possibility of falling.When the SUVs rolled up onto the wet tarmac, the men who stepped out smelled like the past that would not die. Luca walked first, rain like a crown on his shoulders. He looked older, yes, but the same in the way only brothers can be: the same gri
Chapter Ten — “The Blood Oath”
“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
Chapter Nine — “The Judas Pact”
“Every kingdom falls from within.”The bells of Palermo rang hollow that morning, swallowed by the gray hum of sirens. Matteo Rossi stood in the shattered remains of his office, smoke curling through the air like ghosts refusing to leave. A bomb had gone off before dawn—small, precise, personal. The kind of attack that whispered betrayal.The marble floors were cracked, the lion crest scorched. Enzo stood beside him, face pale, his left arm wrapped in gauze.“They planted it under the conference table,” Enzo said. “Military-grade. Someone knew the layout.”Matteo’s jaw tightened. “Someone inside.”He picked up a shard of glass, blood from his palm running down the reflection. In the jagged surface, he saw himself dark suit torn, eyes hollow, a man made of scars and smoke.“Any casualties?” he asked quietly.“Three dead. Two guards, one accountant.”“Names.”“Ricci, Lupo, and…Carlo.”Matteo froze. “Carlo?”Enzo nodded grimly. “He was the one handling your Zurich transfers.”Matteo let
Chapter Eight — “The Price of Crowns”
“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
Chapter Seven — The Lion’s Court
“In the jungle of men, mercy is just another word for weakness.”The marble corridors of the Rossi estate echoed with the sound of shoes and whispered fear. It had been two days since Nico’s body was found floating in the bay. Two days since Matteo Rossi silenced another ghost from his past.Now the city whispered his name again — not as a dead man, but as a storm.Inside the grand hall, the air was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Every high-ranking figure in Naples’s underworld had come. The old dons from Calabria, the Sicilian smugglers, the Neapolitan financiers — men who built empires from blood and silence.At the far end of the long table sat Don Vittorio Leone, the aging patriarch whose name had ruled Naples for thirty years. His presence was calm but heavy, like the weight of time itself.Matteo walked in last.The room turned.He wore a black suit, no tie, the collar open just enough to show the scar near his throat. His eyes were cold, not from arrogance but from memory.
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