CHAPTER FOUR- THE CITY BREATHS BLOOD

THE CITY BREATHES BLOOD

Palermo’s nights were thick, suffocating, alive with menace. Rain turned the lamps into streaks of fire in the black void. Smoke rose from kitchens, from clubs, from the secret corners where men planned, bargained, and killed without hesitation. And in the center of it all, Lucia Romano moved like a predator wearing the skin of a queen.

She had learned the city’s rhythm: when to strike, when to retreat, when to allow chaos to feed her power. Yet now, every step carried the weight of whispers, of judgments, of Palermo sensing cracks in her armor.

The boy lay in the nursery, restless as always. At six months, he had become more than a child; he was an echo of Guerrero Valenti, a living spark of fire in a fragile body. Lucia watched him crawl, small fingers grasping the edge of the crib, eyes sharp, alive, aware. Every movement reminded her of what she had lost and what the city might take if she faltered.

“Do you see him, Enzo?” she asked, voice low and controlled. “He is not weak. Not yet. But every day, the city tests us both.”

Enzo Santoro leaned against the doorway, his silhouette a mixture of concern and loyalty. “The city does not forgive weakness,” he said. “And you… you cannot afford to falter.”

Lucia’s gaze hardened. “I will not falter. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

And yet, even she felt the tremor of fear. Palermo’s underworld was patient. It waited. It watched. It attacked when it saw the slightest hesitation.

The first threat came on a night so quiet it felt unnatural. The gates of her compound had been breached—not by men, but by fire. The walls of her storage rooms were scorched, barrels of supplies destroyed, crates of weaponry reduced to ash. The smoke clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin. She breathed it in like poison, tasting danger.

She did not panic. Panic had never been her language.

Instead, she moved with precision, Enzo at her side, eyes scanning, hands gripping steel that could kill in a heartbeat. She could feel the city’s pulse in the tremor of her own heart. Someone had sent a message: chaos was coming, and the boy was in the crosshairs.

Weeks passed with more attacks, each more violent than the last. Rival gangs tried testing her, slipping into her territory under the cover of night, only to find blood and fire waiting. Lucia moved among the carnage with lethal grace, her small frame belied the storm that lived in her. Men fell, groaning or screaming, knives, bullets, and fists meeting a precision born of experience and rage.

The boy was always safe, always watched. He cried sometimes, the sound sharp and unbearable, but he survived. And every survival sharpened Lucia’s edge.

Yet the city whispered louder each night. Bastard. Abandoned. Weak. Every word clawed at her carefully constructed power. Palermo did not forgive a mother who failed her child, even a child of legend.

Then came the betrayal.

One of her lieutenants, a man she had trusted, tried to claim a portion of her holdings for himself, siding with outsiders while she defended her son. Lucia found him in the dark, leaning against the walls of her compound, smug, cocky, believing she had softened.

“You think I will forgive this?” she demanded, her voice low, dangerous. “You think I will let you endanger him?”

The man laughed, too confident. “The boy is nothing without his father. Even you are weaker than you pretend. You cannot hold this city alone.”

Lucia’s hands moved faster than he could see. A blade pressed against his throat, steel cold, unforgiving. “You speak of weakness,” she said. “I will show you what it means to betray me.”

His eyes went wide. Blood rushed in a spray as she ended the betrayal with a single, precise strike. No hesitation. No mercy. The message was clear: Palermo did not challenge the Queen of the Vikings lightly, and the boy, the bastard, would be untouchable under her rule.

Even Enzo did not speak. He only watched, knowing silence was the only proper witness to such cruelty.

Days later, she visited the markets in disguise. Rumors had reached her ears: people spoke of a shadow watching the boy, of whispers of Guerrero’s legacy lingering like smoke. Merchants, mothers, even children mentioned it in passing. Bastard. Son of a man who abandoned him.

Lucia’s fingers clenched. She would not allow the city to name him. She would not allow Palermo to shape his destiny without her hand guiding it. She resolved to teach him, to mold him, to prepare him for the shadows that already reached for him.

The night was alive with threat. Gunfire erupted in a distant sector, screams punctuated by the roar of engines. She felt it in her bones: Palermo was growing restless, dangerous, chaotic.

And in the shadows, a figure moved with silent intent. Not Guerrero, not yet, but someone watching, waiting, measuring. The storm was approaching, though no one in the city could see its edge.

Lucia returned home to find the boy staring from his crib, eyes sharp, unblinking. There was awareness there, a spark that could not be crushed, no matter how harshly she disciplined him. He was small, but already dangerous in the way only a Valenti could be.

She picked him up, holding him close. “You will survive,” she whispered. “And you will be stronger than they ever expect. The city will fear you, even if they do not know why.”

Lightning struck in the distance, illuminating the night, casting the palazzo in stark shadows. Thunder rolled through the hills, and for a moment, Palermo itself seemed to pause, waiting for what was to come.

A scream echoed in the distance, followed by gunfire. Enzo rushed to the windows, scanning the darkness. “They are escalating,” he said. “The city is testing you. Testing him.”

Lucia’s lips curved in a small, cold smile. “Then we will show them what it means to survive.”

But even as she spoke, she felt the weight of Palermo pressing in, a pressure that was patient, endless, inevitable. The boy was growing stronger, sharper, more aware, but so too were the enemies circling them, moving unseen, hungry for power.

And in the darkness, a shadow paused atop the rooftops. Silent. Watching. Patient. The city did not notice. Lucia did not know yet. But Palermo’s underworld would soon tremble, for the storm that had been whispered about for hundreds of nights was beginning to take form.

And when it struck, it would leave nothing untouched.