2025-09-21 02:18:51
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Watcher in the dark
The Valenti family had once been kings.Not of Milan—no, that throne belonged to the DeLucas—but of Genoa, the port city where salt and blood mixed in the harbor waters. For decades, they ruled the shipping lanes, the docks, the underground fight rings, and the narcotics trade funneling through the Mediterranean. They were brutal, yes, but smart—more businessmen than brutes, their empire built on corruption, not corpses. Their symbol was a serpent coiled around a dagger, forged in silver and worn only by those who had spilled blood for the name.But in 2008, the DeLuca syndicate moved.They didn’t declare war. They didn’t need to.One night, the Valenti patriarch, Don Luciano Serrano, was found floating in the Nervi marina, his throat slit ear to ear, a single playing card—the Ace of Spades—stuffed into his mouth. The message was clear: You’re out.Within weeks, half the Valenti captains were dead or disappeared. Their warehouses burned. Their accounts frozen. Their allies turned sile
Silent rage: You feel it but don’t see it
The television screen burned.Not with the fire that had consumed the DeLuca Research Center, but with the image of it—looping, relentless, inescapable. Across Italy, from the cramped apartments of Naples to the penthouses of Rome, the same footage played: flames erupting from the mountain’s belly, smoke rising like a curse, the once-imposing structure collapsing into itself as if the earth had opened its mouth and swallowed sin whole.“This is Chiara Marchetti, reporting live,” the anchor said, her voice steady but laced with something deeper—fear. “We are receiving confirmation from Lombard emergency services that the DeLuca Research Center has been completely destroyed in what officials are calling a ‘catastrophic internal fire.’ There was no explosion. No gas leak. No prior warnings. Just fire—sudden, violent, and contained entirely within the lower levels.”The screen split. On one side, aerial drone footage showed the smoldering ruin, blackened steel beams jutting from the wreck
End of a dynasty
The mountain held its breath.No leaf trembled. No loose stone rolled. Even the wind, that eternal traveler of the Lombard peaks, seemed to hush itself as if the ridgeline had been asked to keep a secret. Far below, cradled in a crescent of granite and shadowed pines, the DeLuca Research Center slept—a serpent of glass and steel coiled against the dark, its venom distilled into labeled vials, its sins catalogued and buried beneath concrete.Tonight, something would pry those sins loose.Three kilometres away, on a ridge rimed with frost, four figures stood like exclamation points against the sky. Adrian DeLuca did not move. He breathed so little his chest might as well have been a statue. His eyes, the colour of old river stones, were fixed on the compound like a judge reading a sentence. The flame that had lived in him since childhood—the slow bright ember that had ignited the night the gates shut on his mother—beat in time with the faint, digital tick in his earpiece.The beast woul
Invisible Law firm
Power 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, 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 strategy. Judges so
The Fire That Sleeps
Isabella DeLuca had once been the most admired woman in Milan. She did not need her husband’s name to command respect; she had her own empire long before Salvatore had begun to claw his way up the ranks of the underworld. Born into wealth, educated in Paris and London, she had turned her inheritance into power, investing in companies that spread across Europe—shipping, textiles, even banking. She had been a billionaire in her own right, a woman whose signature could alter markets, whose beauty drew whispers at every gala, whose intelligence left men scrambling to keep pace.And yet, when people spoke of her, they always added his name. Isabella, wife of Don Salvatore DeLuca. She allowed it, even encouraged it, because she loved him with the kind of devotion that defied reason. In public, she was his equal, dazzling in silk gowns and diamond earrings. In private, she was his shield, his cover, the one who soothed his temper and explained away his crimes as the actions of a man misunder
Blood in the Ledger
The 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. They were
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