Chapter 3 First Blood

Luca had never killed before.

He had seen blood, seen the aftermath of violence-bruised knuckles, shattered glass, the sound of gunfire in the distance-but never had he been the one to pull the trigger.

Tonight, that would change.

The black SUV cut through the city streets, headlights slicing through the darkness. Inside, Luca sat in the backseat, Niccolo beside him, a gun resting on his lap. The weight of it felt foreign in his hands, like it belonged to someone else.

"You can still back out," Niccolo said, watching him carefully.

Luca exhaled slowly, tightening his grip on the gun. "No."

Backing out wasn't an option. Not anymore.

The hit had already been arranged. A low-level traitor-Marco Vasquez, a former enforcer who had sold information to the Feds. His betrayal cost the family two major arms shipments, and under his father's rule, betrayal was met with only one response.

Death.

Niccolo leaned back, his voice low and measured. "The first time is always the hardest."

Luca didn't respond. He wasn't afraid of blood. He was afraid of what it would mean-what it would do to him.

Would he feel guilt? Regret? Or worse... nothing at all?

The SUV pulled into a dimly lit alleyway behind a rundown warehouse. Vito and two other men were already there, standing over a man bound to a chair. Marco's face was bruised and swollen, his lip split from a previous beating.

Luca stepped out of the car, his heartbeat steady but heavy, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

Vito glanced at him, then at Niccolo. "You sure about this?"

Niccolo didn't answer. He didn't need to.

This was Luca's test.

Marco lifted his head, blinking through the blood. When he saw Luca, a smirk ghosted over his busted lips.

"You?" he coughed. "They're sending you to do this?"

Luca didn't react.

Marco let out a rough chuckle. "Your father would be ashamed."

Something sharp twisted in Luca's chest. He stepped forward, gun raised, the cold steel pressing against Marco's forehead.

The laughter faded.

For a moment, the alley was silent except for the distant hum of the city beyond.

Luca's finger hovered over the trigger. His breathing was slow, steady.

Then, in a voice that didn't sound like his own, he asked, "Did you regret it?"

Marco swallowed. "Regret what?"

"Betraying him."

A beat of silence. Then Marco gave a weak, bloodied smile.

"No."

Luca pulled the trigger.

The gunshot rang out, echoing through the alley. Marco's head snapped back, the chair rocking slightly before settling. Blood trickled down from the single bullet hole in his forehead.

Luca didn't move. He didn't blink.

The body in front of him was just that-a body.

No guilt. No regret. Nothing.

Niccolo exhaled, clapping a heavy hand on Luca's shoulder. "It's done."

Luca lowered the gun, his hand steady. He turned away from the body, toward the men watching him.

He saw it then. The way they looked at him-not as a boy, not as a weak heir forced into a throne he didn't deserve.

They looked at him as something else.

Someone else.

A DeLuca.

A Don.

And for the first time since his father's death, Luca felt something settle in his chest.

Power.