PROLOGUE
Palermo, Sicily - 19 years ago
Rain pounded against the tiled roof of the Moretti estate, a relentless drumbeat that drowned the distant hum of the city. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Eight-year-old Adrian Moretti crouched behind the grand staircase, his small hands gripping the polished wood, eyes wide with terror. The marble floor beneath him was smeared with red, a trail leading to the grand hall.
His father, Don Salvatore Moretti, knelt in the center of the room, bound to a chair, his head hanging forward. The once-pristine white shirt was soaked through, the crimson spreading like an ugly blossom. Beside him, his wife, Adrian's mother lay still on the floor, her dark hair fanned across the marble, her lifeless eyes fixed on nothing.
A rival boss stood over Salvatore, a hunting knife in hand, its curved blade glinting in the chandelier light. It was an old knife, one Adrian recognized from his father's study, the same one his father kept in a glass case as a symbol of their family's history. Seeing it in another man's grip felt wrong.
The enemy leaned in close, saying something in a low voice that Adrian could not hear over the roar in his ears. Salvatore's head lifted, his dark eyes finding the shadow where his son hid. Their gazes locked, father to son.
With an effort that seemed to drain the last of his strength, Salvatore's voice cut through the chaos, hoarse but clear.
Do not forget this knife… one day, you will make them pay.
The rival boss's expression hardened. Without hesitation, the blade plunged into Salvatore's chest. Adrian's world splintered with the sickening sound of steel meeting flesh.
A hand clamped over Adrian's mouth, muffling the scream that threatened to escape. Strong arms pulled him back into the shadows. Lorenzo, his father's most trusted man, crouched low, eyes darting between the boy and the carnage unfolding in the hall.
We have to go, Lorenzo whispered fiercely, though his voice shook with restrained rage.
Adrian's tear-filled eyes darted one last time toward his father, now slumped lifeless in the chair, the blood-soaked knife slipping from the rival's grasp to clatter against the marble. That sound would haunt him for years.
Lorenzo carried him out through a hidden passage, the boy's small body trembling violently. Outside, the rain washed over them, cold and heavy, as if the sky itself mourned the loss.
In the years that followed, Lorenzo raised Adrian in the shadows, teaching him the codes of survival, the art of patience, and the ruthlessness needed to reclaim what was stolen. And though time dulled many memories, his father's final words spoken with blood on his lips burned into Adrian's soul.
Do not forget this knife… one day, you will make them pay.
Chapter One
The years had carved a man out of the terrified boy. Adrian Moretti was no longer the shadow that escaped his family's slaughter. Now he was the shadow that others feared in the streets of Palermo. Tall, broad shouldered, with hair as black as midnight and eyes the color of cold steel, he carried himself like a man who had long since learned that mercy was a weakness. The knife, that same knife now rested in a custom case in his office, its blade polished, waiting for the day it would be used again in the way it was meant to be.
It was mid-afternoon when the call came in from his men. They had found Marco. The traitor who had leaked his father's confidential shipments to a rival gang. The man who had stood aside while his parents bled out.
When Adrian arrived at the warehouse, the air was thick with the smell of rust, oil, and fear. Marco was bound to a chair in the center of the room, his wrists tied with rough rope that had already cut into his skin. His hair was thinner than Adrian remembered, his face lined with age, but those eyes still that same pale brown m darted around in panic.
Please, Adrian, he started, his voice cracking, I was desperate, they had my family, I had no choice.
Adrian's gaze slid past him. At the far side of the room stood two young women, both with long dark hair, both with the same pale brown eyes as Marco. Their clothes were dusty and torn, their faces pale. They looked at him like prey looks at a predator.
The younger girl's voice trembled as she cried out, Papa. Her small hands clutched her sister's arm, but she could not stop herself from pulling forward, as if some desperate part of her believed she could still reach him. The older one's voice was louder, sharper, a mix of anger and terror. Stop it, please stop, leave him alone. Her words broke into sobs that echoed off the concrete walls.
He stepped closer to Marco, his boots echoing on the floor. You had a choice. You chose to betray.
Marco's breathing quickened. His shoulders shook as if the weight of his own words would crush him. I beg you, do not hurt them. They are innocent.
Innocent, Adrian repeated, his voice low, almost amused. No. They carry your blood.
He reached out, taking Marco's chin in his hand, forcing the man to meet his eyes. You remember the night my parents died. You remember the knife. You remember standing there and doing nothing while their bodies grew cold.
Marco's lips trembled. Tears welled in his eyes. I am sorry. I will do anything.
Adrian's hand tightened. Anything will not bring them back.
The first blow landed with a sharp crack, Marco's head snapping to the side. The girls screamed together this time, their voices high and raw. The younger tried to twist away from the sight, but one of Adrian's men caught her chin in a rough grip and forced her face forward. You watch, he growled.
Another strike. And another. Each hit drew more blood, each one punctuated by the girls' cries of Papa. The older girl's voice broke completely, her words turning into incoherent sobs, but she still tried to beg through them. Please, no more, please, please.
Adrian ignored them. The sound of fists against flesh echoed in the room, steady and unhurried.
After what felt like hours, Adrian finally drew back, breathing steady. He took out the knife from its case, its silver blade catching the dim light. He let Marco see it, really see it. The man's eyes widened in horror, recognition flashing in them like lightning.
No, please, he whispered. Not that.
Adrian's expression did not change. This is the only way.
When the blade went in, Marco's cry was raw, tearing through the still air. The younger girl's scream pierced even louder, the older one's hands pulling against the guard's grip until her wrists burned. She begged again, but the words were swallowed by the sound of her sister's sobs.
Adrian twisted the knife slowly, the way he imagined the man in black had done to his father. He watched the light leave Marco's eyes, then pulled the blade free and let the body slump forward.
He turned to the daughters. You belong to me now.
The older one stared at him, her chin lifting slightly despite the terror in her eyes. The younger pressed closer to her, shaking so violently it was a wonder she could still stand.
Adrian stepped closer, his presence filling the space between them. You will live in my house. You will work. You will earn the right to breathe. Food will be a privilege, not a right. Obedience will keep you alive. Disobedience will not.
They said nothing. They could not.
At the Moretti estate, their new reality began immediately. They were shown to a small room in the servants' quarters, the windows barred, the bed little more than a thin mattress. That first night, they were given no dinner. The younger sister cried softly into the dark, while the older one lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind replaying every second of her father's final moments.
Somewhere else in the mansion, Adrian stood in his office, cleaning the blade with slow precision. His father's voice echoed in his memory. You do not forget that knife. You will make them pay.
He was making them pay. And this was only the beginning.