Veils of Thorns

Luca DeLuca never liked funerals.

The silence, the scent of freshly dug earth, the weight of a thousand unsaid words pressing against his ribs-it all felt suffocating. But today, he had no choice.

He stood in front of the open casket, staring down at the lifeless body of his father, Don Salvatore DeLuca. The man who once ruled this city with an iron fist now lay still, his hands folded neatly over his chest, his wedding band glinting under the dim light of the cathedral.

The sight didn't feel real. It was as if any moment now, his father would open his eyes, sit up, and bark out orders like he always did. But Luca knew better. A bullet to the head doesn't leave room for miracles.

The church was filled with men dressed in black, their faces grim, their whispers hushed. Made men. Killers. Liars. Backstabbers. All of them had sworn loyalty to his father. And yet, here they were, murmuring behind his back, already calculating their next move.

"The kid ain't ready."

"He's too soft."

"We need a real leader, not a college boy."

Luca clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He knew they doubted him. He'd spent his whole life on the outside of the family business, shielded from the blood and violence. His father wanted him to have a different life-a better one. But now, that choice was gone.

The heavy doors of the cathedral creaked open, and a new presence entered. Niccolo Romano, his father's right-hand man. A man built like a bear, with cold, calculating eyes that had seen more death than Luca ever would. He approached with slow, measured steps, stopping just short of the casket.

"Luca." His voice was rough, a warning wrapped in forced sympathy.

Luca lifted his chin, forcing himself to meet Niccolo's gaze.

"It's time," Niccolo said.

Luca swallowed hard. He knew what was coming. The ceremony. The moment he would either take his father's throne or be cast aside like a weakling.

A weight settled on his chest.

He was not ready.

But ready or not, this was his life now.

And there was no turning back.

Luca followed Niccolo out of the cathedral, his heartbeat drumming in his ears. The moment his father was lowered into the earth, the wolves began circling. Outside, black cars lined the street like silent sentinels, their polished surfaces reflecting the dim glow of streetlights. The cold night air bit at Luca's skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere-on the men watching him, on the weight of expectation pressing down on his shoulders. At the bottom of the church steps, a group of high-ranking family members waited.

Among them stood Vito Carbone, his father's closest advisor, a man with graying hair and sharp, assessing eyes. To his left was Alessandro DeLuca, Luca's uncle, a man known for his ruthlessness and barely concealed ambition. Niccolo placed a firm hand on Luca's shoulder, a silent signal to stand tall. "They're waiting for you to fail," Niccolo muttered under his breath. Luca swallowed hard, straightened his spine, and stepped forward. Vito was the first to speak. "It should have been me." The words hung heavy in the air. No pretense, no false condolences-just a challenge wrapped in thinly veiled resentment. Luca's hands clenched into fists. It should have been me. That's what they all thought, wasn't it? That he was too young, too inexperienced, too soft to lead. His uncle, Alessandro, chuckled darkly. "The kid doesn't even know how this world works, yet here we are, treating him like a king." He turned to the others. "Is this really what we're doing? Handing over an empire to a boy who's never shed blood?" The group murmured in agreement. Luca felt the weight of their stares, their doubt, their hunger for power. His father's body wasn't even cold yet, and they were already picking apart his throne. Niccolo stepped forward, voice like steel. "The Don chose his successor. We honor his decision." But honor meant little in a world built on greed and blood. Luca knew that much. He took a slow, steady breath. Then, before anyone else could speak, he did something that surprised even himself. He stepped closer to his uncle-too close-his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, voice calm but laced with something dangerous. "You think I'm not ready?" Luca asked. Alessandro smirked. "I know you're not." Luca tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. "Then teach me." The smirk faltered. A quiet tension spread through the group. Luca could feel the shift, the way they looked at him differently now-not as a boy, but as something else. Maybe he wasn't ready to be a king. But he'd learn. He'd become what they feared. Because in this world, you either rise or die. And Luca DeLuca had no intention of dying.

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.