Chapter One

Sicily, Italy — Three Years Later

The air reeked of salt and secrets.

From the cliffside balcony of his fortress estate, Luca Moretti stood still as stone, a shadow cast against the bruised Sicilian sky. Below him, the Tyrrhenian Sea foamed and churned, dark and endless, as if echoing the turmoil inside him. His black shirt clung to his body, billowing slightly in the wind, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The same sea that had baptized him in blood at fifteen now whispered in waves — asking what he would do when he finally had her again.

Three years he had scoured continents. Burned through cities. Made enemies of allies and devils of men just to find her.

And now, she is in Sicily.

The name had arrived in the dead of night, like a curse whispered from the grave — Amara Venti. Tracked. Verified. Alive.

A name he'd sworn to protect and destroy in the same breath.

His fingers curled tighter around the stone railing, the pressure stark enough to make his knuckles scream. Beneath the limestone was iron, beneath the iron was bone. He’d built this estate as a sanctuary, a fortress, a kingdom. And like any king left too long alone in the dark, he had turned cruel.

She had no idea what was coming.

Inside, the villa pulsed with movement — soldiers rotating, weapons being checked, orders fired off by Matteo. But Luca stayed rooted to the storm, letting its fury match his own. Every breath cost him. Every hour she was still out there chipped at his restraint like acid.

The last time he’d seen her, she was painted in blood —not her own.

A ghost in red.

Then she vanished.

That night had rewired his very existence. That night had made a monster of a man already feared by empires.

But monsters were still men… until the world stripped them of reason.

“Signore,” Matteo's voice broke through the hush behind him.

Luca didn’t turn.

“She's in Palermo,” Matteo continued. “Working under the name Vena.”

That made him turn. Slowly. Deliberately.

His eyes — obsidian and merciless — burned beneath the low light of a brewing thunderstorm.

The way his gaze landed on Matteo would have made a lesser man flinch.

“Where exactly?”

“Bartender. Club Inferno. Off Vucciria. Independent. No ties to any family.” A pause. “She's smart, boss. Kept her head down. But it's her. I confirmed it.”

Luca's silence grew thick. Electric.

Then, softly — “Good.”

He turned back toward the hallway and disappeared into the shadows of the estate. The wind slammed the balcony doors shut behind him like a tomb’s seal. The entire villa seemed to bow under the weight of the moment.

This was no longer about revenge.

This was about possession.

He walked towards his private quarters, his boots echoing down the marble corridor like the ticking of a slow death clock.

“Prepare the car,” he called behind him. “No guards. I go alone.”

“Alone?” Matteo's footsteps faltered. “Boss, if she bolts —”

“She won't,” Luca snapped, his voice a blade. “Her soul remembers me. Even if her mind tries to forget.”

Matteo swallowed his reply. He knew better than to challenge Luca when his voice turned that quiet — that lethal.

Inside his room, Luca shed his shirt with one fluid motion, letting it fall like discarded silk. He stood before the mirror, bare to the waist. The reflection that stared back was one even he didn’t recognize anymore — all scars and shadows, violence etched into flesh.

Old bullet wounds faded with time. A fresh one across his shoulder from a recent standoff with the Romano syndicate. A jagged scar along his ribs — a gift from a traitor who no longer breathed.

None of it mattered.

Not tonight.

He ran a hand over his jaw, bristled with dark stubble. The face staring back was no longer that of the boy who once held her like she was the light in a ruined world.

He looked like a warning.

And he was.

She would fight him. She would remember. She would hate him.

And she would never leave again.

He pulled on a black dress shirt, leaving the top buttons undone. No tie. No armor. He wanted her to see him bare — the way she once did when she licked blood from his throat like it was holy.

No other woman had touched him in three years.

He hadn't let them.

He didn't crave pleasure. He craved her.

Her chaos. Her bite. Her blood beneath his nails. Her laughter like war drums.

When he touched her again — and he would — it wouldn’t be soft.

It would be real.

Palermo – 10:17 p.m.

Club Inferno – Vucciria District

The place throbbed with heat, low beats, and bad intentions. Lights flickered over crumbling walls stained with smoke and sin. It reeked of sweat, spilled liquor, and anonymity — the perfect place to be nobody.

She moved like she owned the shadows.

Amara Venti — Vena, they called her now — poured shots with a flick of her wrist, her movements lean and efficient. Black tank top, worn jeans, boots with a blade tucked inside. A single braid fell over her shoulder, sleek and dark.

Her eyes too sharp for a girl her age.

Her smile? Too practiced to be real.

She never flirted. Never gave out her number. Never told the same story twice. No one here knew who she really was, and that was exactly how she liked it.

But tonight something was off.

Around 10:30, the air shifted. Not the music. Not the crowd. The atmosphere.

It tightened like a noose around her throat.

She felt she saw it before she saw him — a heat crawling up her spine, freezing her hands mid-pour.

She glanced up.

And there he was.

Across the room, dressed in black like a devil dressed for mourning, he stood.

Still. Silent. Watching.

Luca.

Her lungs forgot how to function. Her grip loosened.

The bottle hit the floor and shattered.

Everything else shattered with it.

She hadn’t been prepared for this.

In three years, she had built a life of hard edges and cold silence, like a fortress of her own design. No one knew who she truly was. And she’d been content with that. Safe. But the moment his eyes met hers across the crowded room, everything shattered — all her walls, all her control, crumbled like ancient ruins under an unrelenting tide.

He was here.

And he still was Luca — that dangerous boy, that storm she’d once loved, that monster who had broken her heart and never apologized.

But he wasn’t a boy anymore.

He was the king.

And he had come for her.

The electricity between them was palpable. It crackled in the air like the storm outside, thick and suffocating. She wanted to run. She needed to run. But her body refused to obey.

He was walking toward her now, slow, deliberate steps that mirrored the beat of her panicked heart. She couldn’t breathe. Her palms were slick, her legs unsteady.

Amara wanted to scream at herself for feeling this way — weak, vulnerable, seen. But there was no time. He was too close now.

And the moment he reached her, everything else in the world stopped. The noise of the club. The lights. The heat. The bodies. All of it faded away.

It was just the two of them.

And the fire that burned between them.