Return Of The Prodigal Son.

The next morning, Lucy woke to sunlight slicing across the blinds, sunlight cut across the curtains, spilling gold over tangled sheets. Lucy stirred, her head pounding faintly, her body wrapped in the fading warmth of the night before.

The bed sheets were tangled around her legs, the faint smell of whiskey and cologne still clinging to the pillows. Her heart thudded as she turned, half expecting to see him there, the stranger with the dark eyes, the bruised fists, the presence that had shaken her to her core.

But the other side of the bed was empty.

Her chest tightened. She sat up quickly, searching the room as if he might have just slipped into the bathroom or stepped out for a cigarette. But the truth was undeniable: his jacket was gone, the chair by the corner empty, and the silence heavy with absence. No note. No trace. No number.

Her heart stopped as reality crashed back. She hadn’t even asked his name or for his number. In the haze of rebellion and desire, she had let herself forget every question.

Lucy sank back into the sheets, her lips still tingling, her heart pounding with a weight she couldn’t name. For the first time in her life, she had fallen—not for freedom, not for rebellion, but for a man who had already vanished into the shadows.

And she didn’t even know if she would ever see him again.

The city was quieter at dawn, its chaos muted under the pale wash of morning light. In the heart of a district far from the glimmering clubs, a black car slowed to a halt before an old warehouse converted into a private residence.

The hooded man now without the hood stepped out. His jaw was still bruised from a fight he had days earlier, he had gotten into a fight not long when he had returned back with some thugs harassing a lady, he could not stand to see a lady being bullied or harassed that was why he had intervened earlier at the club when Lucy was being dragged out. The bruises on his face were nothing compared to the cuts on his knuckles which stung far worse, reminders of the girl whose hands had pressed ice against them hours ago.

He pushed through the steel doors, greeted immediately by silence that smelled faintly of smoke and steel oil.

The warehouse was dark, its silence broken only by the sound of footsteps pacing the concrete floor. The man who had saved Lucy the night before sat alone, his jacket draped carelessly over a chair, his bruised knuckles resting on the edge of the table.

He had been gone for years, long enough for most to forget him, long enough for his name to slip into rumor rather than certainty. But now, his return was unavoidable. His father had summoned him back, dragging him into a life he had once fought tooth and nail to escape.

He was no ordinary man. He was Angelo Mancini, only son of Giovanni Mancini, the ruthless head of the Mancini Syndicate, a crime empire locked in a cold, bloody rivalry with the very family Lucy belonged to.

And fate, in its cruel humor, had placed her in his path.

Angelo leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening as fragments of last night replayed in his mind: Lucy’s fire, her trembling defiance, the unexpected softness when she tended to his bruises. She didn’t know who he was. She couldn’t have known. If she had, she never would have touched him, never would have let her guard down.

He cursed under his breath.

Just days ago, he had returned to the city against his will. Giovanni Manacini had made it clear, his son was to take over the family empire, to inherit the bloody legacy of violence, fear, and iron control. But Angelo had left that world years ago. He had abandoned the bloodstained halls of his father’s mansion, disappeared into the wind, determined to live as more than a weapon molded by another man’s hands.

But his return had opened old wounds. Although he had not yet gotten home to see his father, just the few days he had been around, he had figured it all by himself that the way Giovanni still ruled was still through fear, crushing allies and enemies alike, drowning the city in blood. Angelo had argued, fought, roared his defiance on the phone with his Father until he could not take it anymore.

And when the fury had become unbearable, he had left to find where to clear his head. That was how he ended up at The Velvet Room, drowning his anger in whiskey and neon, never expecting to cross paths with the fiery little sister of his father’s greatest enemy.

Now he sat in silence, his bruised fists pressed together. Very few knew of his return. Fewer still knew what he truly looked like now, after years away. That was why the enemies who had tried to drag Lucy away hadn’t recognized him at first, until one of them had remembered.

And the moment his name had clicked, fear had done the rest.

Because Angelo Mancini wasn’t just Giovanni’s son. He was a ghost thought long gone, a shadow that had returned. To some, he was a threat. To others, he was salvation. To everyone… he was dangerous.

He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. His chest tightened as Lucy’s face surfaced again in his memory, her voice trembling but steady, her hands pressing ice against his wounds, her laugh ringing through the haze of liquor, the warmth of her voice when she spoke of protecting her brothers. Her laugh, too loud for the walls of his world, still echoed faintly in his chest.

He pressed his bruised fist against the counter, as if punishing himself for remembering.

The daughter of our rivals, he thought bitterly. Of all the women in this city… Why her?

And yet, no matter how he tried to push the thought away, her presence lingered. A spark buried deep inside him, one he hadn’t felt in years, refusing to die.