Damiano's POV
Naples glitters differently from Rome.
Softer, maybe. More treacherous.
From the penthouse balcony, the city looks like it's bowing — lights rippling across the harbor, smoke rising in thin coils from the street stalls far below. The water catches every spark like a mirror, and for a moment, I can almost pretend the city already belongs to me.
Almost.
I sip my whiskey and study it all — the pulse, the chaos, the illusion of freedom that comes from not realizing you're already being watched. Power sits in the quiet. In patience. In knowing when to move.
Control. Always control.
My phone buzzes on the desk behind me. Zio Marco.
I take one last look at the water before answering. "Zio."
"Damiano," he greets, his voice all gravel and cigarette smoke. "You sound busy."
"Never too busy. How are things in Rome?"
"Running smoothly. Awaiting your return." He pauses, the kind of pause that smells like ash. "We've secured the shipment from Bari — the one that was held up at customs. Your man Rossi handled it cleanly."
"Good."
"The northern suppliers have agreed to extend credit again. They're eager to stay in business now that you're expanding south. But…" He exhales, the sound of smoke dragging through his throat. "Naples is a different animal, ragazzo. Men here don't bend as easily as they do in Rome."
"They will," I say simply.
Marco chuckles, a low rasp. "You sound just like your father. Always thinking five moves ahead."
"I learned from his mistakes."
"Still, tread carefully. I've been hearing whispers. Word of your betrothal has circulated. You've made allies — some of them powerful. But you've made enemies too. The Jewel of Naples has been in more than one man's sights."
"Then I'm doing something right."
A quiet pause, then: "Be careful, Damiano. Envy builds faster than loyalty."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"And the girl?"
"She'll serve her purpose," I answer, tone flat.
Marco hums, unconvinced. "You say that like you're trying to convince yourself."
I smile faintly. "Maybe I am."
When I end the call, silence folds back into the room. The hum of the city swells again, muffled by glass and distance. I pour another drink and let the burn settle deep in my chest. Naples tastes different — like salt, smoke, and power waiting to be claimed.
A line clicks across the secure handset on the desk. Short, efficient: a voice I hear more than I see.
"Boss," Rizzo says, voice low. "We had a snag on the A1. Two crates intercepted by a local crew who thought you wouldn't notice. They moved quick."
I put my glass down slowly and don't turn around.
"Names."
"Small crew. Call themselves the Varricos. Middleman's a kid named Moretti — he's loose-lipped but greedy. They thought they could skim and flip the goods."
There are a dozen ways to answer that. Guns. Messages. A public humiliation. Fire. I breathe out, tasting the whiskey on my tongue.
"Handle it quietly," I say. My voice is measured; the room leans into it. "No bodies left in the street. No witnesses. No paper trail. Make it look like they never existed — a quiet correction, not a spectacle. Let the rumor mill do the work."
"Understood," Rizzo replies. "We'll make it clean."
"Clean," I repeat. "And leave a card for Moretti. One visit, one reminder. Then he'll spread it for us. Whispered consequences are louder than bullets, and they don't drag scrutiny. Keep Naples tidy."
When I hang up, the city outside seems a shade quieter. That's the point. A man who moves quietly can shape the night without waking the dogs.
A knock breaks the quiet. Two short raps.
"Enter."
Leonardo steps in, grin already in place. He's a mirror I never asked for — younger, lighter, a touch too alive for this world. But he's damn good at what he does — and that's exactly why he's my underboss.
His jacket hangs open, his tie half-untied, the scent of expensive cologne following him in. He drops a thick black folder on the desk with a satisfying thud and flops onto the chair like the world owes him something.
"Did I come at a bad time?" he asks, voice upbeat.
"Always," I say, setting my glass down.
He laughs under his breath. "Then I'll make it worth your while." He tosses the folder toward me. "Everything you asked for — the Romanos, their holdings, their business associates, even what kind of cigars the old man prefers."
"Efficient as always."
I flip the folder open. Names. ledgers. shipments. shell companies. A map of power disguised as ink. And then — her.
Isabella Romano.
The photo catches her mid-turn, hair falling loose, defiance written into the line of her jaw. She doesn't smile for the camera. She doesn't need to. She already looks like a storm that hasn't decided who it's going to ruin yet.
Leonardo leans against the desk, watching me. "She's beautiful."
"Irrelevant," I say, though my tone doesn't carry the conviction it should.
He smirks. "If you say so, fratellone."
I glance up. "You enjoy testing me?"
"Only because you never fall for it."
"Drink?"
"Always."
We step onto the balcony together. Naples sprawls beneath us, all gold and shadow. Leonardo props his elbows on the railing, letting the breeze tug at his hair, while I stand beside him, composed.
"You really think this marriage will make Naples bend?" he asks after a moment.
"Bend?" I swirl the whiskey in my glass. "It'll kneel."
He lets out a low whistle. "You sound like Father used to."
"I sound like someone who doesn't intend to fail."
A beat of silence passes. The sea murmurs below. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail and fade.
"You've always carried more weight than you should've," Leonardo says quietly. "You could've stayed in Rome, let the old man's empire run itself."
"And watch it rot?" I shake my head. "No. Rome was my inheritance. Naples will be my conquest."
Leonardo chuckles. "Still poetic when you're threatening entire cities."
"Someone has to keep you entertained."
He grins and clinks his glass against mine. "You always do."
For a while, we drink without speaking. Despite everything — the bloodlines, the differences — Leonardo is the only person I trust without question. Half-brother, yes. But always mine.
When he finishes his drink, he sets the glass down. "I've got a few places to be."
I arch a brow. "Better not bring anyone back here."
"No promises." He laughs, already backing toward the door. "Try not to burn Naples down while I'm gone."
He slips out like a bright flame — dangerous, uncontained.
When he's gone, the silence feels heavier. More deliberate.
My father's face comes to me then as plainly as if he were standing in the room: hard lines softened only by an appetite for dominion. He taught me chess and how to read men before he taught me to take. Before he died, he left me a machine of interests and debts and favors threaded through half of Italy. He bequeathed me liabilities dressed as opportunities.
He once told me, fingers trembling with smoke, that the world was a board and it begged for men brave enough to rearrange it.
I promised him I'd finish the game.
If Rome was a kingdom he inherited, Naples will be the kingdom I forge. There's a taste in that thought — satisfaction and the kind of hunger that doesn't sleep. Once this is done, nothing will stand in my way.
When the door shuts, the room inhales. I return to the desk and open the folder again. My fingers brush the edge of Isabella's picture — the defiance in her gaze, the quiet rebellion beneath the polish. The kind of woman who thinks she can't be owned.
We'll see about that.
"If she wants to play," I murmur, a faint smile touching my lips, "then let's play."
I close the file. The sound snaps through the room like a shot.
Outside, Naples keeps shining — unaware that its new king is already setting the board.