Page 3 of The Scars We Keep
Jackets shift as they move, fabric parting just enough to reveal steel.Knives press against ribs, guns rest at hips, the weight of violence sewn into every seam.These are the men who didn’t run when the empire cracked apart.And today, I need to make damn sure they see us for what we still are.
We are the storm that follows the silence.We are still the De Luca name no one dares to cross.
My boots hit the stone floor.The sound echoes through the foyer.One of Serrano’s guards shifts in front of me.He hesitates, then steps aside.Not out of manners, but survival instinct.He knows what will happen if he doesn’t.
We move further inside.
The house surrounds us, polished and perfect—two stories of wealth soaked in blood.Marble floors shine under crystal chandeliers.Gold trim.Thick rugs.Art on the walls that costs more than some men’s lives.The Serranos built their fortune on fear, and this place proves it.Rich.Ruthless.Flashy in a way only old money and old crime can pull off.
The staff move quietly.Heads down.Hands quick.Eyes never lingering.They know better.
I take the stairs slowly, dragging my fingers along the carved banister.
I hear movement before I see her, enough to catch my attention.
She’s standing there, arms crossed under her chest, hip tipped out, chin lifted in pure defiance.Long legs bare beneath a dress that knows exactly what it’s doing.Curves sharp enough to cut.Tits full, heavy, pressed together just enough to make a point.She doesn’t shrink when my eyes land on her.
She stares back.
She’s Serrano’s daughter.I’d stake my life on it.
Beautiful in the way men fall for.Fuckable in a way that would keep you awake at night and cloud your judgment.But it’s the look in her eyes that pulls me in.Dark.Wild.Untamed.There’s heat there.Anger too.The kind that doesn’t scream but waits.
That stare isn’t curiosity; it’s a challenge.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, aware of the effect her body has.The way her dress clings to her hips, and her mouth is set as if daring someone to say the wrong thing.She’s not a sheltered princess; she’s a weapon Serrano never bothered to lock away.
That girl isn’t trouble just waiting to happen.
She’s a lit fuse hidden in silk and skin, just waiting for someone careless enough to strike the match.
She watches me pass, the heat still burning in that stare, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a second look.Whatever fire she’s hiding behind those eyes, she can keep it.I have bigger battles to fight.
My men stay close behind me.They move with me like shadows I trained myself.
The meeting room looms ahead.Dark wood.High ceilings.Walls of black walnut stretch upward, built to absorb sound.Every inch of this space is designed to remind you who’s in charge, and who’s just one wrong word away from getting their throat cut.
I step across the threshold, and the room feels different.Heavy.Watching.
Giovanni Trezzi and Marco Leone sit at the far end, already waiting.Two snakes in Brioni suits, smiles coated with cheap charm and cheaper loyalty.I’ve heard their names a hundred times in my uncle’s voice, always followed by the same warning: They’ll kiss your hand one day and slit your throat the next.If they twitch wrong, finish it before they beg.
They glance up when I enter.Eyes darting.Hands twitching.Weak men in strong suits, fighting to hold a seat at a table they never earned.
I see the fear they’re trying to hide.I can smell it on them.
My men spread out, taking their usual positions against the walls.Eyes alert.Hands near their steel.
I don’t head for my usual seat, that one halfway down the table, empty, still haunted by the ghost of the boy who used to sit beside Matteo and keep his fucking mouth shut.
I keep walking straight to the chair that built this empire one bullet at a time.My uncle’s seat.Heavy-backed.Black leather worn soft from decades of blood-soaked decisions and men around the table begging for mercy that never came.
It isn’t just a chair; it’s a fucking crown.
I drag it back slowly enough to let them feel it, then I sit right at the head of the table.My spine straight, my eyes forward.
Someone laughs.
The kind of sound that slips under your skin and tries to crawl up your spine.
