THE BASTARD SON OF THE VIKINGS

Palermo breathed like a wounded beast beneath the night sky. The narrow streets glimmered with wet stones, reflecting the heartbeat of the city in streaks of red and gold. The old churches were silent, their bells mute, watching from the shadows as sin painted the night.

Tonight was not a night of silence.

It was a night of blood and celebration.

Luce Rossa Nightclub pulsed like a living organ in the center of Via Roma, its red neon light beating against the darkness. Luxury cars lined the street, engines silent, guards standing like statues carved from stone. From the moment someone stepped inside, they were swallowed by heat, bodies, perfume, smoke, and the wild energy that came from men who lived one breath from death and celebrated as if each night were their last.

The Vikings ruled tonight.

Their victory roared through the walls, shaking the club from its foundation. A shipment worth millions had crossed continents without losing a single crate. The lieutenants were drunk on triumph, slamming glasses, throwing money, boasting scars and stories. Girls laughed on their laps, touching faces that had seen far too much violence to ever soften completely.

But in the middle of it all stood one man who did not need noise to command attention.

Guerrero Valenti.

Tall, broad, a presence carved from shadow and steel. His dark hair was tied at the nape of his neck, a few stubborn strands brushing his jaw. His shirt clung to his chest like it feared to wrinkle. His hands, large and scarred, rested casually at his sides, but anyone who had dealt with him knew they could crush a man faster than some could blink.

Guerrero did not shout. He did not boast. He did not need to. His silence was more dangerous than most men’s rage.

Lucia Romano knew this. She had heard stories. Everyone in Palermo had.

But seeing him tonight was different.

Lucia leaned against the bar, one hand wrapped around a cold glass, the other resting on the polished wood as she watched him through the shifting lights. Her black hair fell in waves down her back, skin olive and unshaken by the strobe of neon. Every man in the room looked at her, but she only looked at one.

She had grown up among monsters. She knew how men pretended to be wolves, how they showed teeth they could never use. She knew the gestures, the glances, the posture. But Guerrero was not pretending. He existed, and the room rearranged itself around him.

Her pulse betrayed her. She hated that.

Enzo Romano, her cousin and the club’s unspoken guardian, leaned in beside her, his breath carrying whiskey and danger. “He keeps looking at you,” he murmured. “Guerrero notices what matters.”

Lucia sipped slowly. “Let him notice.”

Enzo grinned, slanted and knowing. “He does not notice lightly.”

Before she could reply, Guerrero moved.

He did not walk toward her. He cut through the crowd like a blade through silk. Even the men who idolized him fell silent when he approached.

When he reached her, he did not speak at first. His eyes swept her face, her hair, her mouth. Lucia refused to look away. If he wanted to stare, she would let him drown in whatever he thought he could take from her.

“You are watching me,” he said finally, voice low and rough, like smoke over coals.

“You are difficult to ignore,” she replied.

He stepped closer. The scent of him wrapped around her: warm smoke, expensive liquor, something darker beneath it. “Dance with me.”

“I do not dance,” she said.

His hand slid to her waist as if her refusal meant nothing. “You will tonight.”

The music shifted, heavy and dark, like a pulse slowed into a threat. Guerrero pulled her into the center of the floor. Her breath caught despite herself. His grip was firm, commanding, yet there was an electricity beneath it, coiling heat into her veins.

“You are trouble,” he murmured against her ear.

“So are you,” she said. “Worse, I think.”

His laugh was quiet, dangerous, a sound that promised both ecstasy and pain. “That is why you are here.”

His fingers trailed along her spine, and she felt herself unraveling, inch by inch, without permission. Her lips parted slightly. Heat coiled low in her stomach. She did not know who leaned in first, but one instant later, his mouth brushed hers, and everything shattered.

The kiss tore open something she had spent years protecting.

He pressed her against the cool plaster of a hidden corridor. The music throbbed behind the walls, fading into a background of distant chaos. His hands lifted her hips, pressing her closer. Her fingers tangled in his hair, his mouth consumed hers like he had been waiting years for this single taste.

When it ended, the silence was almost tender, heavy with something neither of them could name.

He studied her face with a fierce intensity. “You belong to no one,” he said softly.

“Neither do you,” she replied.

His lips curved slightly. “Not tonight.”

Later, when she walked out into the night, the air felt wrong. Too quiet, too light. She did not look back. She would not give him the satisfaction.

And yet, the memory of his hands, the heat, the darkness, the danger, lingered on her skin like a brand.

Weeks passed.

Two. Four. Six.

Rumors of Guerrero Valenti were worse than any lie she could have imagined. Shot. Missing. Betrayed. Dead. No body, nothing proven.

Lucia told herself she did not care.

She lied.

On the night the rain pounded the roofs of Palermo, she stood in her bathroom staring at the small white stick on the counter. The storm rattled the windows. Her heartbeat sounded louder than the thunder.

Two lines.

Dark. Bold. Unmistakable.

Positive.

Her breath left her in a broken exhale. The room tilted around her. She gripped the sink until her knuckles paled. The test blurred behind her teary vision, but the result was clear.

She was carrying his child.

Guerrero Valenti was gone. Dead, missing, vanished—whatever the city believed.

And now she carried the one thing that tied them forever.

A life born from a night of recklessness, danger, and passion.

A life that would inherit his shadow, his blood, and his enemies.

A life she had no idea how to protect.

She whispered into the empty room, into the roar of the rain, “What have you done to me, Guerrero?”

Lightning flashed across the city. Thunder cracked, rattling the windows.

And for the first time in years, Lucia Romano, once untouchable and feared, felt something she had not felt in a long time.

Fear.

Deep. Soul-shaking.

She looked down at the test again.

Two lines.

Two lines that had just rewritten her world.

Far away, in the darkness of the underworld, the name of the unborn child was already being whispered before he had drawn his first breath.

Bastard.

The Bastard Son of the Vikings.