Chapter 8 The Price of Victory

Televisions. Phones. Tablets. Street screens in Times Square.

Every screen in the city was lit with the same thing-

Adriano Greco's face.

CNN. FOX. MSNBC. BBC. Even goddamn TMZ.

"...the man seen here is alleged to be Adriano Greco, the youngest son of infamous Italian crime lord Don Raffaele Greco. Law enforcement sources confirm that the robbery was executed by a group known as The King Cobras, believed to be the American arm of Il Serpente Dorato-the Golden Serpents, a violent mafia syndicate originating from Naples, Italy..."

"...early reports indicate over a dozen law enforcement casualties and upwards of $300 million in stolen assets..."

"...at least 14 police officers dead, multiple civilians injured, dozens of the guards in the back murderered, and the FBI confirms it is now involved in what they're calling a 'Tier-One federal emergency.'"

"...this is one of the largest heists in U.S. history..."

Then footage plays showing Adriano in a black tactical vest. Gun raised. His piercing green eyes glowing with fire, his perfect jawline. A brief, feral smirk before the camera cuts.

Meanwhile,

Social media platforms where having a complete meltdown.

TWITTER:

@justicewarrior101

This dude Adriano Greco is a terrorist. #FBI needs to lock this psycho up. This ain't a movie. People died 😡

#KingCobras #MafiaScum

@mafiawifevibes

idc if he robbed 10 banks-he can rob my heart next 🥰

#AdrianoGreco #VelvetDaddy #GoldenSerpent

@TrueCrimeBabe

I'm starting a thread of everything we know about The King Cobras...

@velvetloungequeen

That man's jawline could cut glass and I would still ask him to choke me 🤤🥵

#AdrianoGreco #MafiaHotness

@JusticeForTheFallen

HE KILLED COPS. This isn't some sexy mafia fantasy-this is domestic terrorism. LOCK 👏 HIM 👏 UP 🚔🔥🚫🩸

#AdrianoGreco #KingCobras #JailTheGoldenSnake

@CorruptCutie_xoxo

I know he's a murderer and all but like...that SMIRK??? I'd commit war crimes for him 😩💋

#VelvetDaddy #CriminalFineAsHell

@FBIstan69

Why does this man look like he smells like money, sex, and gunpowder? Asking for a friend. (It's me. I'm the friend) 🔥🐍💦

#KingCobraKink #IlSerpenteCanBiteMe

@VelvetVixenQueen

"He's a monster!" Okay but he could put his MONSTER in my- nvm 🫠

#VelvetLoungeTonight #AdrianoPleaseStepOnMe

On Instagram, under a leaked photo of Adriano's smirk mid-heist, comments were flooding in.

@liarliarpradaonfire

Daddy material. Arrest ME instead 🫦

@fedswatchingme

Just say you like criminals and go 🙄😒

@serpentfangirl666

I'll join the mafia if it means I get to sit on his lap! 😋

@ripmyethics

Cops died? Okay but do you see those veins on his hands?? 🫦😈

@donttouchmylashes

The way this man's side profile just awakened something ancient in me🧎‍♀️😮‍💨

-

Adriano's office at The King Cobras' safehouse glowed in warm golden light. His crew surrounded the massive steel-reinforced table. Piles of duffel bags and weapons sat open, the air still thick with post-mission adrenaline and the faint scent of gunpowder.

Enzo Ricci walked in late, sleek in his designer coat, unbothered by the heat in the room.

"Jesus," he said as he loosened his collar. "We're trending higher than Taylor Swift and war crimes right now. The press is calling it terrorism."

Luca leaned casually against the table, swirling a half-drunk glass of whiskey. "We're calling that a win."

"Be fucking serious right now, Luca." Enzo replied dryly, dropping into a chair.

Luca grinned, turning to Adriano. "The cash count's done. $40 million even," he said. "Could've been more, but you know...bombs, bullets, bodies..."

Marco shrugged, deadpan. "Can't make an omelet without blowing up a vault."

Enzo gave him a flat look. "That's not the idiom."

"Maybe your idiom's wrong."

Luca chuckled. "$40 million covers what we lost. And then some extra."

Enzo smirked. "Idioms aside, the buzz on the street's wild. Politicians I've paid off are all pissing themselves. One of them asked me if you were planning to rob the White House next."

"Did you tell him maybe?" Adriano asked.

"I told him to shut the fuck up and donate to my fake charity."

Luca laughed. "God bless Enzo."

Adriano didn't react, but the room felt the shift-the tension in his jaw. It wasn't enough.

He turned to Serena. "Report."

Serena tapped away at her tablet, then looked up coolly. "From the offshore accounts I breached, I managed to wire out a total of $250 million."

Adriano blinked once. Then leaned back slowly in his chair, lips parting into a predatory smile.

"Bravissima, Serena!"

Luca whistled. "That's art. FBI's probably crying in their donuts right now."

Marco raised his champagne. "To Serena, the only hacker I trust with my internet history."

Serena didn't smile. "You shouldn't."

Everyone laughed-except Adriano, who turned to Marco.

"And the gold?"

Marco straightened. "Thirty thousand bars, each an ounce. The market value of gold's currently at $3,500 an ounce."

Serena did the math before anyone else. "That's $105 million."

Adriano immediately shot up from his seat, his emerald eyes practically glowing. "THAT'S A TOTAL OF $395 FUCKING MILLION??!!"

He spread his arms with dramatic flair. "Now that's a fuck-you to the universe!"

Luca raised his glass. "To Adriano, the only guy crazy enough to rob the most dangerous bank in the country and actually get away with it."

"To The King Cobras," Marco added.

"To me never paying taxes again," Serena muttered.

Enzo chuckled and lifted his own glass. "To the man who gave a middle finger to Wall Street, Washington, and the FBI all at once-and made it look sexy."

Adriano grinned. "I'll drink to all four."

The celebrations were cut short when Adriano's phone suddenly vibrated against the table. The screen lit up.

Caller ID: Padre

Everyone went silent.

Luca raised a brow. "Uh oh. The Don's definitely pissed."

Adriano scoffed, his smirk dimming slightly. "We'll see about that."

He picked up the phone and gestured for everyone to leave. They obeyed without hesitation.

The room emptied.

Adriano took a breath, then answered.

"Padre."

"Stronzo inutile!"

Don Raffaele's voice thundered through the receiver. "What the fuck did I tell you? You had one job-lay low. Build slowly. Keep eyes off us. But no-you want to play fucking action movie!"

Adriano couldn't get a word in.

"Now your face is all over the goddamn internet! Every governamento is watching! You're the #1 trending topic on social media, coglione!"

Adriano ground his teeth. "I made three hundred and ninety-five million dollars."

A moment of silence.

Then-

"I DON'T GIVE A FLYING FUCK!" Raffaele roared. "I wouldn't give a fuck if you made a billion. That's not the point. I gave you orders. Simple ones. And you disobeyed!"

He switched to Italian.

"Mi hai fatto sembrare un buffone davanti ai miei alleati. Mi vergogno di te!"

(You made me look like a fool in front of my allies. I'm ashamed of you.)

Adriano's voice dropped. "Padre, I was trying to fix-"

"Zitto! Shut your fucking mouth. You're done talking. This is the last straw! I've had enough of your reckless bullshit!"

Raffaele's tone turned deadly.

"Alessandro is coming to the U.S."

Before Adriano could respond.

BEEP.

The line went dead.

Adriano lowered the phone slowly. His expression didn't change-but his knuckles turned white as he clenched the armrest of his chair.

Not even a 'good job.' Not even a 'well done, son.'

Not after all that blood.

All that risk.

He sat there a moment longer, cold fury burning in his chest. But slowly, he drew in a breath.

"Not today, old man."

He picked up his phone again.

"Fratello," he said the moment Luca answered.

"What's up?" Luca asked, wary.

"Get a car ready."

"Where we headed?"

Adriano stood, his golden-green eyes flashing.

"We're going to The Velvet Lounge."

-

TUSCANY, ITALY.

Villa Tenebra, the heart of La Rosa Nera's power in Tuscany, was shrouded in silence. Marble floors gleamed beneath centuries-old chandeliers. The living room, wide and cold, was decorated with classical Italian oil paintings-men with swords, women in mourning. Blood and elegance, the Moretti way.

Don Valentino Moretti sat unmoving on a velvet high-back chair, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, though he hadn't taken a single puff.

Across from him stood Vivianna Grande, his trusted consigliere-tall, composed, her raven-black hair tied in a tight bun. In her hand, she held a tablet, the screen casting faint flickers across her flawless cheekbones.

She tapped the screen once.

The video played-grainy yet sharp. Flashes of masked men. Explosions. Screams. Chaos. Security camera footage layered over iPhone recordings. Then came the freeze-frame.

Adriano Greco.

Unmasked. Smirking. Golden hair wild. Green eyes glittering with madness as he walked out of the vaults like a man who owned hell.

Vivianna turned the screen toward Valentino.

Behind her, Matteo Moretti, the Don's only son, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a sleek gray suit, his brown hair perfect sliced back.

"They say he made off with nearly $400 million, Papà," Matteo said bitterly. "And according to the whispers from Crown's bleeding clients... at least $192 million of it was ours."

Valentino did not blink.

His jaw tensed, molars grinding. The cherry of his cigar finally dimmed, forgotten.

Vivianna nodded. "We traced the laundering routes through offshore banking circuits we'd secured years ago. The accounts were ghosted within hours of the heist."

Matteo stepped forward, fists clenched. "That little bastard just wiped out almost two decades of careful laundering."

Still, Valentino said nothing.

He reached for the tablet in Vivianna's hands.

He replayed the clip. Again.

And again.

And again.

Until Adriano's face filled the screen.

Paused.

Frozen in a moment of criminal triumph.

Valentino leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen, as if memorizing every line of the young man's face. The scar over his brow. The smirk. The bloodlust behind those green eyes.

A vein in his temple throbbed.

Then came the voice-low, guttural, venomous.

"Questo piccolo figlio di puttana." (This little son of a bitch.)

He passed the tablet back to Vivianna.

"They think because I killed one Greco... they're safe? Because I tore Rosalia from them, they think I'll stop there?" His voice grew colder. Each word like a blade dipped in frost.

He stood.

The weight of his presence darkened the room.

"No. That was a warning. But clearly, the serpents didn't learn their lesson."

He turned to Matteo, his expression like stone carved by rage.

"Maybe it's time I cut off the head of this new hatchling." He practically spat the next word. "Adriano. The loud-mouthed Americanized scum of a Greco."

He stared out the grand window where the Tuscan hills rolled in the fading light.

"That son of a bitch is going to regret the very day he was born."