Lethal Love

The night was thick with heat and the scent of cigars, curling lazily through the dimly lit back room of Romano's, one of my family's high-end restaurants.

The golden glow of chandeliers dripped from above, casting shadows that stretched like dark tendrils across the polished mahogany table. I sat in the middle of it all, feeling the weight of centuries of tradition pressing down on my shoulders like a heavy mantle.

Across from me sat Vincenzo Romano, my father. His face was etched with the lines of age and power, a man who had built the Romano empire with ruthless precision.

He watched me with the same cold detachment as always, eyes dark and sharp. Around him, his most trusted men lingered like shadows, their faces unreadable, but I could feel their gazes piercing through me.

Every move, every word had become a test. I wasn't just Luca-the son. I was Luca, the heir. The next in line to carry the Romano legacy. And if I faltered, even for a moment, they'd tear me apart.

Family was everything, but in the world we lived in, it could be your greatest enemy. Tonight, though, felt different. Darker. The tension was thicker, heavier, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

"Your uncle's been getting sloppy," my father finally said, his voice a low growl that cut through the silence like a knife.

"Someone's been feeding information to the Ferraras. If it isn't him, it's someone close. I want you to handle it.

The Ferraras. A family name whispered with venom in the streets of Verona. The Ferrara and Romano families had been locked in a bitter war for generations.

A war that had no victors, only survivors. Each move was a chess piece on a bloodstained board, and right now, it seemed one of ours had betrayed us.

My stomach twisted at the thought of Uncle Rocco. He'd been with us for as long as I could remember. Loyal. Or so I thought. But loyalty meant nothing in this world unless it was proven every day.

And the whispers... those goddamn whispers... they had started to get louder.My father pushed an envelope across the table, its edge catching the dim light.

"I had my guys do some surveillance. He was last spotted at the airport, heading to New York. You'll get on the next flight. My contacts there will take you to where he was last seen," he said, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. I swallowed hard, fighting the knot tightening in my chest.

The duty was clear. Rocco needed to be reminded of where his loyalty lay-or he would meet the consequences. This wasn't just a family squabble. It was a test of my ability to act without hesitation.

And in our family, hesitation was as good as a death sentence.I sat up straighter, keeping my expression neutral even as doubt waged war inside me.

"What do you need from me?" His eyes gleamed with something dark, something calculating.

"Rocco needs a reminder of where his loyalty lies. Make sure he gets it." The words were like lead, sinking into the silence between us.

I understood the unspoken order. If I showed any weakness, if I hesitated, I'd lose more than my place at the table. I'd lose everything.

Without another word, I pushed my chair back and stood. My father's voice, calm but as cold as ice, followed me.

"Prove you belong at this table, Luca. Show me what you're made of."

The night air hit me like a wall when I stepped out onto the streets of Verona. The city, with all its ancient beauty, glittered under the moonlight.

But to me, it felt like a cage-a gilded prison that I could never escape from.I pulled out my phone, dialing the one person I could trust: Marco Rossi, my best friend and right-hand man.

He picked up on the second ring, and the first thing I heard was the noise of people, loud music booming in the background.

"Where are you?" I asked, pulling the phone away from my ear as the volume spiked.

"Out with friends," he slurred, clearly intoxicated. I pinched the bridge of my nose, shaking my head.

Marco's love for partying was no surprise to me anymore, but tonight wasn't the night for distractions.

"Meet me at home. We have someone to find."

The line went silent for a moment. When Marco spoke again, his voice was sharp, precise. All traces of intoxication gone.

"Who crossed the line?"

I hesitated for a heartbeat, but then the words spilled out like a confession.

"Uncle Rocco." Silence again. Marco understood what that meant. In our world, betrayal wasn't a word thrown around lightly. It was treason. And treason was punishable by death.

By the time I got to the house, Marco was already waiting for me, his tall figure standing like a sentinel in front of the building. He was wearing a long dark coat, and his face was set in a grim line.

We didn't need to speak. We both knew what had to be done.Inside my apartment, we grabbed what we needed-cash, knives, guns. Each item felt heavier than the last as I packed it away.

I couldn't shake the feeling of dread crawling up my spine, but I buried it. If I showed weakness now, my father would send someone else to finish the job.

And that would make me look weak. Unreliable. I couldn't afford that-not now. Not ever.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Marco asked, breaking the heavy silence.

He was leaning against the doorway, his eyes dark with something close to concern.

I paused, sharpening one of the knives, letting the weight of it settle in my hand.

"I'm named heir. If I don't do this, who will?"

The flight to New York was long and torturous, the hum of the engines doing little to quiet the storm raging in my head.

The city was a world away from Verona, but the weight of what I had to do followed me across the ocean like a shadow.

We landed just after midnight, the city's neon lights flickering in the distance as we made our way to a small bar downtown. It was a hole-in-the-wall, the kind of place where people disappeared into the crowd and stayed invisible.

Marco slipped inside first, and I followed, scanning the room with quick, practiced eyes. That's when I felt it-the brush of a shoulder against mine.

A man, dark-haired and lean, moved past me, his gaze focused ahead, but something about him made my pulse quicken.

It was only a moment, a fleeting glance, but there was a charge in the air, like we'd just crossed paths with destiny. I pushed the thought aside.

I couldn't afford distractions. Not now. Uncle Rocco was holed up in a dingy apartment on the edge of the city, a place so far removed from the luxury of our world that it felt like another lifetime.

When we finally found him, he was sitting alone, a bottle of whiskey half-empty in his hand.

He looked up when we entered, his eyes bloodshot and full of something that wasn't quite regret-but close enough.

"You've made a mistake, Uncle," I said quietly, my voice carrying the weight of what was about to happen.

He looked at me, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition, of understanding. Then he nodded, slowly.

"I know." The silence stretched on, heavy and thick, until finally, I raised the gun.

Marco stood beside me, watching, waiting.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure who I was apologizing to-him or myself.

And then the shot rang out.