Chapter 1 Bloodlines and smoke

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The city never slept, not really.

Not in the backstreets where neon lights flickered like failing stars over cracked pavement. Not where cigar smoke hung in the air thicker than fog, and whispers of old loyalties echoed louder than gunfire. Beneath the shine of wealth and respectability, another world pulsed-one fed by blood, bound by oaths, and ruled by men with iron hearts.

Luca Moretti sat in the back of a black Maserati, his fingers wrapped around a crystal tumbler filled with seventeen-year-old Scotch. The streets of Palermo blurred past the tinted windows like a silent film, but Luca wasn't watching the city. He was watching himself.

The reflection staring back at him was cold, composed. Tailored charcoal suit. Jet black hair swept back in practiced elegance. Jawline carved from stone. His eyes, pale steel beneath a dark brow, held the same emptiness they had since he was thirteen-the year he watched his uncle gunned down in a bakery for crossing the wrong man.

He remembered the blood on the flour.

He remembered not flinching.

"Boss, we're two minutes out," the driver said from the front seat.

Luca nodded, draining the glass. "Keep your mouth shut tonight, Sal. It's family business."

"Understood."

Family. That word held weight in their world-not of warmth, but of duty, of power passed down like weapons in a war without end.

The car pulled up beside a gated villa on the edge of the Sicilian hills. The Moretti compound. Security cameras tracked every angle. Men with earpieces and dead stares flanked the marble entrance. As Luca stepped out, the wind caught his coat, the night air filled with the scent of lemons and gun oil.

Inside, the walls were lined with oil paintings of patriarchs long dead, all wearing the same expression: solemn, powerful, unforgiving. The chandelier overhead glittered like a crown of diamonds, but the house was quiet-too quiet.

He found Dante Moretti, his father, in the private study. The old Don was seated in his leather chair, a half-burned cigar resting in a crystal ashtray. His silver hair was neatly combed, his hands folded like a priest awaiting confession. His eyes, though, were as sharp as they had been in the '70s, when he earned his title not through inheritance, but by slaughtering those who stood in his way.

"You're late," Dante said without looking up.

"I'm here now," Luca replied, pouring himself another Scotch. "What's the emergency?"

Dante gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. We need to talk about the De Lucas."

Luca's body stilled, though his face betrayed nothing. "What about them?"

"The girl. Aria."

Luca raised a brow, slow and deliberate. "Aria De Luca is just a name in a family tree that should've burned years ago."

"She's more than that," Dante said, tapping ash into the tray. "She's her father's pride. And there's talk that she's becoming... a voice in their circle. A dangerous one."

"They're still our enemies. What does it matter if she sings or screams?"

Dante leaned forward. "It matters because if she's strong, she's unpredictable. And if she's unpredictable, she can either be a threat-or an asset."

Luca swirled the amber in his glass. "You're not suggesting I make a move on her."

"No," Dante said, pausing. "I'm suggesting you pay attention. Women like Aria aren't born for softness. She was raised in blood, like you. If war is coming-and it will-she may be the deciding piece."

Luca scoffed, standing. "I don't trust chess pieces. I trust bullets."

"And yet bullets end bloodlines. Think like a Don, not a soldier."

Silence stretched between them. Father and son. Don and heir. One shaped by war, the other by legacy.

"You're grooming me to replace you," Luca said.

"I've been grooming you since you were in your mother's arms," Dante replied. "And I've seen the cracks. You're strong, but you feel too much."

Luca laughed, bitter. "I don't feel anything."

"You feel more than you admit. You just bury it under ice and scars."

Before Luca could respond, the door opened and Matteo Rossi stepped in, a grin carved across his boyish face. Once, he and Luca had been inseparable. Brothers by bond, not blood. But time had changed them. And Luca knew better now than to trust a smile that wide.

"Matteo," Dante greeted. "You're early."

"I heard there'd be good Scotch," Matteo joked, helping himself. "And I don't miss family reunions. Especially not now."

"Why now?" Luca asked.

"Because the De Lucas are moving. They've sent someone to New York. There's talk of alliances. With outsiders. Colombians. Russians. Hell, maybe even the Yakuza."

Dante's face darkened. "Then this is the beginning."

Matteo nodded. "The beginning of the end."

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In a quieter part of the city, under the arch of an old cathedral, Aria De Luca knelt before a grave.

The stone was simple. Her mother's name, carved in soft cursive. Fresh flowers. A medallion of the Virgin Mary. Her fingers traced the letters like they were scripture.

"You always said I was too much like him," she whispered. "Maybe you were right."

Behind her, the wind stirred. Footsteps echoed.

"Aria," came Bianca Romano's voice, soft and knowing. "You shouldn't be out here alone."

"I'm not alone," Aria said, standing. "Not really."

Bianca tilted her head. "You've heard about the Morettis?"

"I've heard whispers."

Bianca hesitated. "Then you know what they're saying about Luca."

Aria turned slowly, her voice steel wrapped in silk. "I know that he's dangerous. That he's cruel. And that he'll either destroy everything-or save us all."

Bianca frowned. "You sound like you admire him."

"I don't," Aria said, walking past. "I recognize him. That's all."

As they vanished into the night, neither saw the figure watching from the shadows. A woman with a scar over her left cheek, half her face veiled beneath a black hood.

Isabella.

Alive. Watching. Waiting.

And with her return, the blood would flow again.

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