MATTEO
The blade was still in her hand...a sliver of cold moonlight gripped in her small, steady fingers.
But the air in the private room had shifted. The lethal edge from seconds ago had curdled into something far more dangerous: devotion. She didn't pull the steel away; instead, she sank slowly to her knees on the cold marble, the crimson silk of her dress pooling around her like a fresh kill. She tilted her head back, looking up at me through the narrow slits of that porcelain mask. I couldn't see her face, but I could feel her eyes...doe-like, wide, and wet with a terrifying, sexy hunger.
She turned the knife, clutching the sharp edge until a single drop of red beaded against her palm, and offered the handle to me. She held it out like a sacred offering, her chest heaving, her gaze begging me to take it.
I leaned over her, my shadow swallowing her whole. I wrapped my hand around the back of her neck, my fingers tangling deep in her hair to anchor her. I took the blade from her, the handle still warm from her skin, and pressed the flat of the steel against her cheek. I didn't say a word. I didn't need to.
I trailed the cold metal down the curve of her jaw, moving slowly, deliberately, until the tip rested in the soft hollow of her collarbone. Her pulse jumped against the steel like a trapped bird...not out of fear, but out of a dark, shared adrenaline.
She didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned into the pressure of the blade, a slow, a dangerous smirk pulling at the corners of her lips behind the mask. Her eyes darkened, mocking me, daring me to go further. When she let out a soft, broken moan, it wasn't a plea; it was a vibration that settled straight into my chest, a sound of pure, defiant hunger.
I pulled her head back until her throat was fully exposed to the blade and to me. She didn't look away. She watched me, that smirk never fading, like she was the one holding the leash even while I held the knife. The silence between us was a living thing, screaming with a tension that made my vision blur. I was seconds away from dropping the steel and claiming the madness she was so confidently offering...
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The vibration in my pocket was a serrated edge, cutting through the haze. Three short pulses. The Blood Code.
I froze. She felt the shift in my body, her fingers curling into the fabric of my slacks, a silent plea for me to stay. I forced myself to pull back, my chest heaving as I looked down at her one last time.
Fuck this family. Those cock-sucking brothers of mine.
I slammed out of the exclusive club entrance...leaving the dancer kneeling on the marble...my expensive Italian shoes echoing on the pavement. Don Riccardo had called a fucking meeting, right now. I didn't even know the old bastard was back from his usual Caribbean ghosting. I was always the first person he called.
I drove to the primary villa, moving with the cold speed of someone counting down the minutes until they could resume lethal business. I cut straight toward the subterranean meeting bunker. The hallway was a gauntlet of muscle: men in custom suits, guns riding snug against their kidneys, eyes sharp and dead. The quick nods were tossed like worthless coins. The air hung thick with cigar smoke, stale cologne, and the metallic tang of fresh threat. Every man in this place had blood under his nails, and most of it was mine.
They were already seated at the massive, obsidian circular table.
Alessandro Ricci: The oldest. Late thirties. Acting Don on paper, which means he signs the checks I tell him to sign. He struts like a king but has the spine of a scared kid. He resents me because I can dissect his stupidity in a glance. Father respects me more, and that envy is slowly eating him alive. When Alessandro gives an order, no one asks twice. They follow it. First time: a warning. Second time: a messy funeral.
Marco Ricci: Early thirties. Head of Security...code for our primary butcher. Fist-first, brain-later. A hot, predictable temper. Loves breaking faces. Loyal? As long as he's fed well. Predictable? Never.
Matteo Ricci: Me. Late twenties. I run the real engine: the money, the infrastructure, the expansion that makes us untouchable. Calm, calculating, utterly unreadable. I don't get my hands dirty unless the stain is worth the dry-cleaning bill. When I move, it's final. People underestimate the quiet one until they're on their knees begging me to stop. The name Matteo Ricci makes hardened men swallow their spit when it needs to.
Luca Ricci: Mid-twenties. The youngest. Negotiator, media face, Mama's favorite little viper. Smooth, charming, and a pure-blooded killer who grins while he carves a man open. He plays women for information, disappears into the background, and the target is found later with their throat cut ear-to-ear. He treats violence like dessert.
"Look who crawled out of the gutter to bless us," Luca slurred, barely keeping his balance as I raised a single, silencing finger.
"Don't fucking touch me," I spat, walking past him. He reeked of cheap weed and high-proof vodka. I popped my suit button and dropped into my chair. "What the fuck is the emergency?" My voice was flat, bored.
"Father called the meet," Marco grunted, his face buried in his phone, probably coordinating some low-level hit. He looked like a man defusing a bomb with his thumbs.
"And why the fuck are you hammered?" Alessandro snapped at Luca, prioritizing petty discipline over the reason we were here.
"And where the hell is the old man? He didn't announce he was back," I pressed, my eyes scanning the empty head of the table.
"We were supposed to be asking you that, Matteo," Alessandro returned, locking his eyes on mine. His usual petty, jealous challenge.
"And why the fuck would you assume I had the intel?" I laughed, a short, cold sound devoid of warmth. "You really think if I knew the Don was back and calling a sit-down, I'd stroll in last? I'm not late like you clumsy motherfuckers. Even the drunk one managed to stumble here before me."
"Okay now, figlio di puttana," Luca mumbled, suddenly defensive, trying to sound tough. "Don't rope me into your bullshit."
"Motherfucker, shut the fuck up!" I roared, turning my glare on him. Marco snorted, still glued to his screen, enjoying the show.
"Where is Mama?" I asked, looking for her watchful shadow by the doorway. She was never far when the men gathered. She wasn't there.
"Luca, how did those two bodies you dropped turn out?" Marco asked, finally looking up from his phone, a sick grin pulling at his lips.
Luca pointed a lazy, drunken chin at me. "Matteo cleaned up my mess. Said they were too loud for the pavement."
"Fuck, bro, you got to chill with the way you execute people. They're humans, not statistics for your spreadsheet," Marco lectured.
"Says the same bastard who had five people buried alive in Naples last month," Luca muttered under his breath, eyes cutting to Marco. Marco didn't catch the bite...lucky for Luca, whose head was still attached.
"What the hell is taking so long?" I checked the platinum watch on my wrist, impatience turning into outright rage.
"Why? Got somewhere better to be, Matty?" Alessandro sneered, using the childish nickname.
"Yeah, brother," I replied, the sarcasm slicing the humid air like a rusty blade. "I was about to get that dancer on her knees and fucked until she couldn't see straight, before your goddamn text message ruined my night. And now I'm stuck breathing the same fucking air as you cunts. No wonder my fucking stomach's turning."
I leaned back, my lips curling into a cruel smirk. Alessandro let out a low, cold chuckle...the kind that promises you'll be finding his dagger in your back the second the opportunity arises.
We stared at each other. The tension was a living thing in the room. If we weren't blood, one of us would be dead already.
Then the oppressive tone of the room changed completely. A heavy silence dropped like a guillotine.
"Sons."
We turned in immediate, practiced unison. Our father stood in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over us with the weight of a death sentence.
"There is a hole in our accounts," the Don said, his voice a low rattle. "And a body in the harbor that shouldn't be there."
He tossed a single, blood-stained crimson ribbon onto the obsidian table. It skidded across the surface, stopping right in front of my hand.
"Someone has been playing in my garden, Matteo," the Don whispered, leaning over me until I could smell the gunpowder on his skin. "And they left your name on the gate."