Three days after the shooting,
Luca got the call.
Florence. Outskirts.
An old villa where his father ran the family rites.
Over the fireplace—
the crest: a lion with a spear,
gold-etched eyes staring him down.
The Mark
He unbuttoned his shirt.
The tattooist moved in behind him.
Left ear. Bone and skin.
Cold needles bit. Pain crawled into his skull.
Alessandro watched.
No warmth. No pity.
Only the look that said: You're mine now.
"You're Belloni."
Not a blessing. A verdict.
Last line drawn.
Ink into blood.
A shackle.
And a crown.
The Weight
From that day—real power.
A shipping line in Eastern Europe.
A Dubai property fund.
A weapons channel in South America.
Not just money.
A network. Ports. Warehouses. Accounts.
All waiting on his word.
Luca didn't read numbers.
He read breath.
Who was scared.
Who was hungry.
That's how you owned a business.
Bianca
By then, Bianca was slipping.
No Blue on her desk? Fingers shook.
One day without it—
she'd smash a glass, shove someone into a wall.
He'd be reading contracts.
She'd lean in, press against him.
Whisper:
"Just a little… I need it."
Her voice—half beg, half blade.
He locked the safe.
Knew it didn't matter.
Her hunger had moved past the drug.
It was on him now.
And that…
was worse than any gun.