The dim glow of the warehouse lights flickered, casting long shadows across the cold concrete floor. The air was thick with the acrid scent of cigar smoke and whiskey, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood. In the center of the room, Rafael De Luca sat like a king on his throne-broad shoulders relaxed, muscular frame exuding dominance as he swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass.
His emerald-green eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto the trembling man kneeling before him. A low, humorless chuckle escaped his lips as he watched the man’s pathetic attempts to beg for his life.
“Please, Rafael,” the man stammered, sweat dripping down his temples. “I-I didn’t mean to cross you.”
Rafael arched a dark brow, amusement flickering across his sharp features. “Didn’t mean to?” he repeated, his voice a deadly purr. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and studied the man with cruel patience.
The traitor-a low-level arms dealer who had foolishly believed he could sell Rafael’s weapons to a rival family-flinched under his gaze. “It was a mistake. I swear. I-I can fix this. Just give me a chance-”
A sharp clink echoed in the silence as Rafael set his glass down on the polished wooden table beside him. His fingers drummed against his knee, slow and deliberate.
“I don’t believe in mistakes,” he said coolly.
Before the man could plead further, a gunshot shattered the quiet. The sharp crack rang through the warehouse, followed by the sickening thud of a lifeless body hitting the floor. Rafael barely glanced at Dante, his most trusted enforcer, who was tucking his gun back into the holster beneath his jacket.
“Get rid of him,” Rafael ordered.
Dante nodded, already dragging the corpse away, leaving behind only a dark smear of blood on the floor.
Rafael exhaled slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his black silk shirt. There was no rush of adrenaline, no lingering satisfaction-only cold efficiency. He had grown numb to executions years ago. His mind was on something far more important.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the name on the screen. A flicker of anticipation curled in his gut. Finally.
Pressing the call button, he brought the phone to his ear. “It’s done?”
A low voice answered. “Yes. She’s completely unaware. The girl is innocent, untouched by this world. Just as you wanted.”
Rafael’s grip on the glass tightened slightly, his jaw clenching. Sophia Moretti. The name alone sent a rush of dark satisfaction through him.
The daughter of the man who had destroyed his family. The girl he had spent years watching from the shadows, his obsession growing with every passing day. She had no idea her fate had already been sealed.
“Good,” he murmured, tilting the glass against his lips, savoring the burn of whiskey as it slid down his throat. He licked a stray drop from his lips before setting the glass down.
His fingers traced the edge of the table, his mind already envisioning her-long dark hair cascading down her shoulders, big innocent eyes that held no knowledge of the darkness that lurked in the world. In his world. The world she was about to be pulled into.
“Bring her to me,” he commanded.
There was no hesitation in his voice. No mercy.
Tonight, innocence would be stolen.