CHAPTER THREE - THE SHADOWS OF POWER

“THE SHADOWS OF POWER”.

The city never slept. Palermo throbbed like a living wound, the hum of engines, the hiss of tires on wet stone, and the clink of glasses from hidden clubs blending into a symphony of tension. The night was thick with rain, sharp with the scent of iron and smoke, and Lucia Romano felt it press against her skin as she walked the halls of her palazzo.

She had ruled her world once with iron and fire, a Queen feared by every man in the underworld. Now, with the child asleep in the next room, the walls seemed to close in around her. The whispers were louder, sharper, slicing at her resolve.

Enzo Santoro waited in the shadows of the sitting room, his rugged face pulled tight with worry. He had watched the city shift under her absence of care, noting the subtle cracks that whispered of weakness.

“They talk, Lucia,” he said, voice low, almost swallowed by the storm outside. “They say your son is a curse, not a legacy. They see you falter.”

Lucia poured herself a drink, the glass catching the dim light of a single lamp. “Let them see what they want,” she said, her voice soft but laced with steel. “Fear is not built on whispers alone. It is forged in blood, and I have plenty of that.”

She had tried to maintain control, but Palermo had begun to notice. The Vikings’ lieutenants hesitated, looking at her with measured doubt. Rivals who had once fled at the mention of her name now whispered, testing the waters, seeking weakness. And the child—the son of Guerrero Valenti—was the symbol of everything she could not control.

At three months, he was small but fierce, with dark eyes that mirrored his father’s, burning and aware. He cried often, demanding attention she could not always give. And each time he wailed, the murmurs of the city grew louder. Bastard. Abandoned. The words clung to him like a shadow.

Lucia hated the words.

But she hated the truth more: she could not shield him from Palermo’s hunger for power, its thirst for blood, and its endless curiosity.

The first attack came quietly, almost elegant in its horror.

A shipment she had been expecting—a crate of weapons and supplies vital to her dominance—did not arrive. Instead, it returned riddled with bullets, the crates torn open, splinters scattered like a warning. Her lieutenants discovered the scene first, panic rippling through their ranks. Enzo Santoro arrived moments later, his hands tight on his jacket, eyes scanning the darkness outside.

“They want you to bleed, Lucia,” he said. “This is the start. Not the end.”

She did not flinch. She strode to the crates, examining each one. Splintered wood, bloodstains, a warning etched in crimson across the largest box: Power is inherited, not stolen.

Her pulse thrummed, a mixture of anger and excitement. Violence had always been her language, and Palermo had thrown the first line in their conversation.

Night after night, the attacks escalated. Shadows slipped across her holdings, men disappeared or were found broken, some alive, some not. Each attack tested her, drew blood, and forced her to adapt.

Yet she survived.

She survived because the child had forced her to focus, to sharpen instincts dulled by months of grief and rage. The boy was fragile but unyielding. He cried, he fought, and he grew. And every time he survived, Palermo’s whispers about weakness faltered.

But the city had a long memory, and revenge was patient.

One evening, as Lucia watched the boy in the nursery, the air thick with the smell of rain and candle smoke, she sensed something different. Not an attack, not an intrusion—but eyes. Watching. Patient, cold, unbroken.

Her heart hammered despite herself.

“Enzo,” she said, turning sharply. “Do you see—”

He shook his head, lips tight. “Nothing yet. But you are not imagining it. Someone is close. Too close.”

The boy stirred in his cradle, eyes snapping open. He stared at Lucia, small fingers clutching the blanket. There was awareness there she did not yet understand, a spark of fire that seemed beyond his age.

“You will survive,” she whispered, brushing hair from his forehead. “I will make sure of it. But you will learn. You must learn to fight, to take what is yours before it is ripped from your hands.”

Her voice was soft, almost maternal, yet her eyes were steel. She had no illusions that Palermo would forgive weakness. And the child, despite his innocence, was already the symbol of every power struggle, every betrayal, every shadow in her life.

Weeks passed, and the city’s pulse quickened. Another rival gang made a mistake, challenging her territory openly. She was there when the fight erupted, boots pounding, knives flashing, bullets slicing the night. The chaos was a living thing, voices screaming, men falling, blood painting everything in streaks of red. She moved like a predator, precise, merciless, surviving on adrenaline and instinct.

The child slept through it all.

By the time the last rival lay unconscious or fleeing, she stood over the carnage, chest heaving, hands stained. Enzo approached, his expression unreadable.

“They are learning,” he said. “You are not untouchable anymore, Lucia. But the boy… he is dangerous. They will not forgive him.”

“I do not ask for forgiveness,” she said. “I take what is mine.”

That night, Palermo whispered louder. Bastard. Weak. Abandoned. Every word that threatened her son’s place in the underworld echoed through the city’s veins.

And she prepared.

For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine the day someone would come to claim the boy, to take what she had protected. She did not speak it aloud. She did not need to.

The storm outside mirrored her thoughts. Rain hammered the roof, thunder shaking the shutters, lightning illuminating shadows in the corners of the room. And in that fractured light, she glimpsed him—not Guerrero, not yet—but a figure watching from the rooftops, a silhouette against the chaos. A warning, a promise, a shadow of the storm to come.

Her pulse quickened. She did not fear for herself. She feared what Palermo would do if it ever learned who truly watched from the darkness.

This will end, but certainly not with peace, but with movement. The boy cried out, a sound that sliced through the tension like a blade. Lucia ran to him, arms outstretched, and in that instant, a figure slipped through the shadows outside, unseen, waiting.

The city held its breath.

And Palermo had no idea how quickly the storm would rise.