Chapter One: Alessandro

The night tasted like smoke, blood, and memory.

From twenty floors above, Milan looked peaceful—beautiful, even. The rain-slick streets below glowed under amber lights, the kind of glow that made tourists believe this city still had a soul. But I knew better.

There was no soul here. Only power, debts, and silence.

I stood alone on the balcony of my penthouse, a glass of scotch in one hand, a cigarette burning slowly in the other. The city was mine. Or at least it would be. One day soon, when the old ghosts stepped aside and left me the throne.

The empire wasn’t handed to you. You bled for it. You killed for it. You buried your softness six feet under and smiled at the funeral.

My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket, but I didn’t check it. If it was urgent, Luca would come himself.

He always did.

Behind me, the party carried on in expensive murmurs—tailored suits, red lipstick, fake smiles. One of our legitimate fronts had just closed a deal with a fashion house in Rome. Millions were moving. Papers were signed. Champagne flowed. Everyone celebrated.

Except me.

I wasn’t in the mood to drink with snakes wearing silk ties. They raised glasses to my name and whispered threats when I left the room.

I’d learned to let them whisper. Dead men always whisper.

“Boss,” Luca’s voice broke through the quiet. He stepped onto the balcony, his shirt half-buttoned, tie loose. “Thought I’d find you out here.”

I didn’t look at him. “News?”

“Russo’s man showed up at the port. Same guy, we flagged last week.”

I inhaled deeply. “What happened?”

“He’s not going home.”

A pause.

“Messy?” I asked.

“Not too messy. Matteo smoothed it over with the port authority. Enzo scrubbed the cameras. No trail.”

I finally turned to face him. “And the body?”

“Handled.”

I gave a curt nod. “Good. That’s one less problem.”

Luca leaned on the railing next to me, flicking a lighter open and shut. He had the same black hair and cold eyes as me, but he never bothered to hide the violence in his smile. “You missed the speech,” he said.

“I didn’t have anything worth saying.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re the new face of the family. You could have said buona sera and they’d still kiss your ring.”

I didn’t reply. I knew what I was. And I didn’t need applause.

“They’re calling you Il Principe di Milano, you know,” Luca added with a grin. “The Prince of Milan.”

“Princes inherit. I take.”

“Still. Has a nice ring to it.”

He left a moment later, probably to find a girl and forget about blood for a few hours. I envied him that. I hadn’t felt something like escape in years.

And that’s when I saw her.

Through the glass doors, standing just past the bar — a woman I didn’t know.

That was rare. I knew everyone. Every daughter of every politician, every mistress of every rival Don, every woman ambitious enough to want a piece of the Moretti name.

But her? She didn’t move like someone from this world. She stood still while everyone else circled, like the eye of a storm.

Red dress. Black hair. Eyes too sharp to be innocent. A beauty carved from danger.

Her gaze swept across the room, disinterested, until it landed on me.

And for a moment—just one second—it stayed.

Unflinching.

Unimpressed.

Unaware that she’d just become the most dangerous thing in this room.

I crushed my cigarette underfoot and stepped inside.

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