The Heir of Smoke and Steel

The nightclub reeked of sweat, alcohol, and bad decisions. A haze of cigarette smoke curled around the chandeliers, dimming the golden light that glinted off crystal glasses and gunmetal. At the far end of the VIP lounge, Matteo De Luca sat like a king in exile, legs spread lazily, a glass of bourbon resting in his hand. His dark suit hugged broad shoulders, and the tattoos peeking out from his collar marked him for what he was—the next in line to the De Luca syndicate.

Matteo had the kind of presence that silenced a room without him needing to say a damn word. Thirty years old, with steel-gray eyes that had seen too much blood, he was already known as *Il Principe di Ferro*—The Prince of Iron. Men feared him. Women whispered about him. And rivals cursed his name.

Tonight, though, he wasn’t alone.

Across from him, leaning with reckless arrogance against the velvet seat, sat Rafael Romano—the heir of the Romano crime family. Twenty-four, sharp-mouthed, fire-eyed, and completely unbothered by the tension crackling between them. If Matteo was steel, Rafael was fire—hotheaded, uncontrollable, the kind of flame that burned everything in its path.

They hated each other. They always had.

“You look bored, De Luca.” Rafael’s smirk was a taunt, his voice laced with mockery as he swirled his wine. “What’s wrong? Too old to keep up with the kids?”

Matteo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He leaned back, taking a slow sip of bourbon, letting the silence stretch. He knew silence unnerved people more than words. But Rafael wasn’t like most people.

“Careful,” Matteo finally said, his voice low, roughened by smoke and control. “Mouths like yours don’t live long in this city.”

Rafael chuckled, leaning forward, his face inches away, their breath mingling like fire and steel colliding. “Then maybe you should be the one to shut me up.”

The air between them thickened. Neither moved back. Neither blinked. The hatred was real, but beneath it—something else pulsed. Something neither of them dared name.

The music thudded in the background, bass shaking the walls, but Matteo only heard his own heartbeat as his gaze dropped, just for a second, to Rafael’s lips. Too soft for a man who killed with such reckless ease. Too tempting.

He forced his eyes back up. Dangerous. Reckless. Stupid.

The Romano brat was an enemy. Always had been. Always would be.

“Not tonight,” Matteo muttered, standing, towering over Rafael. He buttoned his jacket with deliberate calm, the leather of his gloves creaking. “But one day, Romano… one day I’ll put you on your knees.”

Instead of fear, Rafael’s smirk widened into something feral, daring. “I’ll be waiting.”

Matteo turned, leaving the lounge, but the fire stayed in his chest long after.

Enemies. He reminded himself. Always enemies.

But his body hadn’t gotten the message. What to do now?

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