Page 1 of Wicked Bloodlines

Chapter One

Matteo

Icaught the guy with a right hook that connected with a wet thud against his jaw. Blood and sweat sprayed in an arc as his head snapped to the side. The impact shot up my arm, a dull ache spreading through my already throbbing knuckles. The pain felt good. Clean and simple. Unlike the mess waiting for me upstairs, where my brothers crafted their schemes and alliances over whiskey and cigars. Down here, in the concrete belly of Villa Luca, there was only the fight, the pain, the win.

“Again,” I growled, circling my opponent as he staggered to his feet.

He was one of our security guys. Dario’s pick for today’s sparring. Built like a tank with a face that had seen too many fights. Good technique, but too predictable. I’d been reading his left jab for the past twenty minutes. My guess is this guy had pissed off someone he shouldn’t have and was being punished. Not my business because whatever lesson the guy came here to learn, he’d be fluent in by the time he left.

The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across the mats. Our underground training facility wasn’t built for comfort. Concrete walls and floors were padded only with mats, and heavy bags hung from steel chains. The faint smell of bleach never quite masked the lingering scent of sweat and blood. My father had built this place as a temple to violence, and I was its most devoted worshipper.

My opponent feinted left, then came at me with a hard right. I slipped it easily, feeling the air brush my cheek as his fist passed. I countered with a body shot that drove the air from his lungs, followed by an uppercut that snapped his head back. The sound of my taped fists hitting flesh echoed in the cavernous room.

Each punch carried the weight of my frustration. While my brothers handled the business with words and numbers, I was the one who delivered messages that couldn’t be misinterpreted. I was the one who made people understand the consequences of crossing the Luca family. Not the lawyer like Alessandro. Not the businessman like Gabriel. Not the strategist like Dario or the fixer like Vittorio. I was the knife in the dark, the gun in the alley. I’m the one who put the fear of God into everyone thinking to oppose my brother.

And I was Goddamn good at it.

My sparring partner stumbled back, his guard dropping for just a fraction of a second. It was all I needed. I stepped in close, pivoting my hips to drive maximum force through my right hand. The punch landed square on his chin, a knockout blow that sent him crumpling to the mat like his strings had been cut. A spray of blood and saliva marked his fall.

“Fuck,” I said, shaking out my hand. The tape across my knuckles was spotted with crimson. His or mine, I couldn’t tell. Probably both. I’d split my knuckles again, the familiar sting of open flesh a small price to pay for the release the violence gave me.

I grabbed a towel from the bench and wiped the sweat from my face, breathing hard. My muscles ached with the good kind of fatigue that came from pushing your body to its limits. I rolled my shoulders, feeling the tension that had been coiled there start to unwind.

Two of the gym staff rushed to check on my fallen opponent. He was already coming around, disoriented but conscious. Good. I didn’t want to break Dario’s toys.

“He’ll be fine,” I said, not bothering to help. “Just needs to keep his guard up next time.”

I unwrapped the tape from my hands slowly, revealing the damage underneath. My knuckles were a mess of old scars and fresh cuts, the skin split and bleeding in places.

“Mr. Luca.”

I turned to find one of our security team standing at attention near the door. Young guy, still stiff in his suit, trying too hard to look professional. He had that nervous look people get when they’re about to deliver news they think might get them hit.

“What?” I grunted, draping the towel around my neck and reaching for my water bottle.

“Mr. Dario requests your presence in the study. Immediately, sir.”

“Of course he did.” I took a pull of water before snagging my T-shirt. “What he really said was tell my brother to get his ass up here.”

“Something like that, sir.” The kid didn’t crack a smile. Score one for the new guy.

I took another long drink of water, deliberately making the messenger wait. A small rebellion, but sometimes those were all I had. “Tell him I’ll be there when I’m done here.”

The security guard shifted uncomfortably. “He was very specific, sir. Said to come right away. It’s… important family business.”

Important family business. That phrase was Dario-speak for “something that’s going to piss you off but you don’t get a vote.” Last time I heard those words, Gabriel had to spend three months in Europe cleaning up a mess with our shipping routes. I could feel my good mood from the fight evaporating, replaced by the familiar weight of family obligation settling back onto my shoulders.

“Fine,” I snapped, tossing the water bottle aside. I didn’t bother to shower or change out of my sweat-soaked clothing. If Dario wanted me immediately, he could deal with me exactly as I was—bloody knuckles, sweat, and all.

The security guard looked like he wanted to suggest I clean up first, but wisely kept his mouth shut. He stepped aside as I stalked past him toward the staircase that connected the underground facility to the main house.

The transition from the training area to the upper levels of Villa Luca was always jarring. Down below was my domain—raw, functional, honest in its purpose. But as I climbed the stairs, the concrete gave way to marble, the bare walls to priceless artwork, the scent of sweat and the tang of blood replaced by the subtle aroma of lemon polish and expensive cigars.

I left wet footprints on the polished floor as I made my way to the study, a trail of disruption through Dario’s perfect house. Blood from my knuckles dripped occasionally, leaving tiny red dots on the immaculate surface. Let him see the mess. Let him remember what he asked me to become.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors to Dario’s study without knocking. The familiar scent of leather, aged paper, and my oldest brother’s preferred Cuban cigars hit me as I entered. They were all there, arranged like pieces on a chess board. Dario behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers steepled, watching me with those calculating blue eyes. Vittorio standing to his right, a shadow with purpose. Alessandro lounging in one of the leather chairs with deceptive casualness, while Gabriel paced by the windows, too restless to sit still. We were brothers but worlds apart in how we moved through life.

“Jesus Christ, Matteo,” Alessandro muttered, his immaculate suit a stark contrast to my sweat-drenched T-shirt. “You couldn’t shower first?”