A Deal with the Devil

The De Luca mansion was quiet that night, too quiet for Matteo’s liking. Usually the halls echoed with the heavy tread of soldiers, the buzz of phones, the low murmur of men moving money and guns like clockwork. Tonight, though, everything was still, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Matteo sat in his father’s study, swirling the last of his bourbon. The amber liquid caught the lamplight, glowing like molten fire. He should’ve been calm, but his mind kept replaying the alley.

Rafael’s laugh.

Rafael’s lips.

Rafael whispering against his ear like a fucking dare.

It pissed him off more than it should.

The door creaked open. Luca De Luca, his father, stepped inside. The old man was a wolf gone gray, scars etched into his weathered face, but the fire in his eyes hadn’t dimmed.

“You’re restless,” Luca said, lowering himself into the leather chair across the desk.

Matteo grunted. “Business never rests.”

His father gave him a sharp look. “Business, or that Romano boy you keep circling like a dog in heat?”

Matteo’s glass slammed against the desk hard enough to crack. “Don’t.”

But Luca only smirked, a predator recognizing another. “You think I don’t see it? The way he gets under your skin? Hate is just another form of hunger, Matteo. And hunger makes men weak.”

Matteo’s silence was damning enough.

Before he could reply, the office door burst open. One of their men stumbled in, panting. “Boss—Matteo—problem at the docks. Romano muscle. They’re blocking our shipment.”

Of course they were.

Matteo grabbed his jacket and gun, all the fury from the alley boiling back to the surface. “Then I’ll remind them whose city this is.”

The docks stank of salt and oil. Cargo containers towered like silent sentinels, shadows stretching long under the floodlights. The tension was thicker than the mist rolling in from the sea.

Matteo’s men stood ready, guns raised. Across the yard, Romano soldiers mirrored them, red armbands marking their allegiance. And at their center—like he was born to stand in the spotlight—was Rafael.

He looked infuriatingly casual, like a man arriving at a party instead of a standoff. His shirt collar was open, throat bare, golden skin gleaming under the light. And of course, that smirk was there—sharp enough to cut.

“De Luca,” Rafael drawled, spreading his arms. “Didn’t expect you’d come in person. Thought Daddy might keep his precious prince locked up safe.”

“Move your men,” Matteo barked, stepping forward, gun heavy at his side. “The shipment’s mine.”

“Funny,” Rafael said, tilting his head. “Because I was about to say the same thing.”

The air vibrated with the click of safeties being released. One wrong move and the night would explode into bullets.

Matteo stalked closer until they were face to face, tension like a blade between them. “You’re playing with fire, Romano.”

Rafael leaned in, voice low, taunting. “Then burn me.”

Matteo’s grip tightened on his gun—but it wasn’t just anger coiling in him. It was something hotter, darker. Something he didn’t want to name.

The first shot cracked the night, and chaos erupted.

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