The city pulsed beneath him, a living thing of glass, blood, and shadows.
From the vast windows of his penthouse, Adrian Cavalli watched the lights of Milan flicker against the night sky, rain streaking the glass in silver veins. The air was thick with summer heat, heavy with the scent of wet stone and smoke.
Adrian took a long sip of bourbon, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat. In his other hand, a cigarette glowed softly between elegant fingers, smoke curling in lazy spirals toward the ceiling.
He had built this life. Brick by brick. Body by body.
Twenty-eight floors below, men sold their souls for scraps of power. Money. Flesh. A moment of control in a world that belonged to him.
Fools, Adrian thought, his mouth curving into a faint, cruel smile. They had no idea how deep the game went.
At twenty-eight, Adrian Cavalli was the most dangerous man in Milan—and perhaps the youngest capo in European organized crime. Ruthless. Possessive. Untouchable. His empire spanned drugs, weapons, clubs, and ports. No deal was made without his blessing. No betrayal went unpunished.
He did not bow to kings. He broke them.
It hadn't always been this way.
Fifteen years ago, Adrian was just a boy. Seventeen. Golden-haired, sharp-eyed, too young to bury his parents. But the streets had no pity for boys—or orphans.
His father, Leonardo Cavalli, once ruled the Milanese underworld with iron will and old-school code. Until the ambush. A hail of bullets in broad daylight. A message from rivals who thought the Cavalli dynasty could be ended with blood.
They were wrong.
Adrian never forgot the sound of his mother's screams, the wet gurgle of his father's last breath. Grief turned to fury. Fury to purpose.
He rose from the ashes, one kill at a time.
By twenty-one, the boy was gone. In his place stood a man who answered to no one. A man whose name made old dons whisper in fear.
Now, even the Triad council—the shadowy inner circle that governed the European underworld—respected him. Or at least, they tried to.
One man, however, still saw Adrian as that seventeen-year-old boy: Marco Lucetti.
And tonight, they would meet again.
"Boss."
A sharp knock. Stefano entered, rain dampening the shoulders of his jacket. Thick-built, graying at the temples, Stefano had served Adrian's father once. Now, he would follow Adrian into hell.
"The council's waiting," Stefano said. "La Scala is secure."
Adrian stubbed out his cigarette, unhurried. He adjusted the cuffs of his black shirt, silk smooth beneath his fingers. His signature chain gleamed at his throat—a silver wolf's head, a gift from his mother.
"Let's not keep them waiting," he said softly.
La Scala was Milan's crown jewel—an opera house of velvet and gold. By day, a place of music. By night, a fortress of power.
Beneath the stage, down secret corridors known only to a few, the true business of the city was done.
The council chamber was carved from ancient stone, lit by low-hanging chandeliers. Six men sat around the long table, their guards posted discreetly in the shadows.
Money and murder had brought them all here.
Adrian entered with his usual slow, predatory grace. His mere presence shifted the room's mood—tension rippled beneath the surface.
He was young, yes. But no one here doubted what he could do. They had seen the bodies.
Adrian took his seat at the head of the table, flanked by Stefano and two of his best. Across from him sat Marco Lucetti, expression cold as steel.
The hatred between them needed no words. It filled the room like smoke.
Marco Lucetti was old blood. A don's don. Silver hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders wrapped in an immaculate gray suit. For years, he had controlled the lucrative gun trade—one of the few businesses Adrian hadn't yet taken.
And Marco hated him for it.
He had watched the boy rise, seethe with jealousy as Adrian's star ascended. The old guard saw him as arrogant, reckless—a child pretending to be a king.
But the Triads had made their decision.
The elder seated at the far end of the table—a gaunt man known only as Chen—cleared his throat.
"We are here to finalize the redistribution of the arms trade," Chen said. "Recent events have made it clear we require a stronger hand in Milan's port operations."
A pause. The old man's eyes drifted to Adrian.
"Effective immediately, Adrian Cavalli will assume control of the shipments."
The words hung in the air.
Adrian leaned back, fingers steepled, unreadable.
Marco's fist slammed the table.
"This is an insult!" he roared. "You hand our business to a boy who barely remembers when this council was founded?"
Adrian's smile was slow. Icy.
"I remember plenty," he said. "Including whose men bled the streets of Milan when my father was murdered."
"Watch your tongue, Cavalli."
"Watch your tone, vecchio. You've grown comfortable sitting on your old glories. But comfort breeds weakness."
Stefano's hand drifted subtly toward his gun. The guards stiffened.
Chen's voice cut through the rising heat.
"The council's decision is final. If any here defy it, they will answer not to Adrian Cavalli—but to us."
A tense silence followed.
Marco's eyes glittered with fury. No older man could afford to lose face like this, especially not to the one rival he hated most.
Adrian met his stare, cold and steady. Possessive. Dangerous.
The gun trade was his now. And Marco could do nothing but seethe.
For now.
The meeting ended. But the war had only begun.
Later that night, in his penthouse, Adrian sipped his bourbon in the dim light of the study. The city glittered beyond the rain-soaked windows.
"He'll come for you," Stefano said quietly.
"I know."
"Should we make the first move?"
Adrian's gaze burned gold in the dark.
"No," he murmured. "Let him stew in his pride. He'll make a mistake."
And when he did—Adrian would take everything.
He always did.
The attack came sooner than expected.
Two nights later, after a long night overseeing business at Club Inferno, Adrian stepped into the damp midnight air—only for the sharp crack of a rifle shot to shatter the silence.
A bullet tore past his shoulder, chipping stone.
"Down!" Stefano shouted, dragging him behind cover.
Another shot rang out—closer this time.
Chaos exploded.
Adrian's men spread out, scanning rooftops. Within minutes, the assassin was spotted—hidden two stories up, rifle in hand.
Adrian watched as his guards stormed the building, dragging the gunman out by force.
A young mercenary, no older than twenty-five. Pale. Shaking. Blood smeared across his mouth from a rough takedown.
Adrian crouched before him, golden hair gleaming beneath the streetlights. His voice was soft—deadly.
"Who sent you?"
The man said nothing.
Adrian drew a knife from his belt—long, gleaming, wickedly sharp.
He ran the flat of the blade along the man's cheek, slow enough to let terror settle in.
"I'll ask again."
A shudder. A whisper of panic.
"Lucetti," the man gasped. "It was Lucetti."
Adrian's eyes narrowed.
"Good."
He rose, sliding the blade away.
"Stefano," he said, voice calm. "Gather the men. Tonight, we end this."
The Lucetti villa lay just outside the city—a palatial estate of stone walls, iron gates, and marble columns.
Adrian's convoy of black cars approached at speed, headlights off.
His soldiers were shadows in the night—faces grim, weapons ready.
Adrian adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, his movements slow, deliberate. His pulse barely quickened.
He had killed before. He would kill again.
And no one—not Marco Lucetti, not the old guard, not the fucking Triad—would stop him.
The breach was surgical.
Guards were taken out with knives and silencers. Gates forced open.
Inside the villa, the silence was wrong. Too quiet. No guards on the main floor. No sign of Lucetti's usual swaggering men.
Adrian stepped through the darkened hallways, gun in hand.
Room by room, they cleared the estate—bedrooms, offices, the grand parlor.
Bloodstains streaked the floor. Bullet holes scarred the walls. Signs of a struggle—but no bodies.
And no Marco.
Stefano frowned. "Something's not right."
Adrian's gaze swept the destruction. His instincts prickled.
"This wasn't a retreat," he murmured. "This was… something else."
He holstered his weapon, eyes burning.
Where was Lucetti?
And who had struck first?
Whatever this was—it had only just begun.
Adrian's lips curved into a dark smile.
"Search everywhere ," he ordered. "Now!!!."
No one stole a kill from Adrian Cavalli.
And when he found who had…
They would beg for death.