3. The Devil Of Milan

~Valentino Romano~

“The shipment from Colombia arrived last night,” Rocco, my PA reported, standing across from my desk, his voice businesslike.

I swirled the golden liquid in my glass, watching the ice melt into the whiskey.

“And?”

He hesitated for half a second.

“They were short,” he admitted. “Five kilos missing.”

Silence settled over the room like a thick fog. The sound of my glass tapping against the large L-shaped executive desk was the only thing that filled the air.

Five kilos.

I exhaled through my nose, setting my drink down.

“Let me guess,” I murmured. “The shipment was handled by the Cortés crew?”

Rocco nodded. “Sí, Boss [Yes, Boss.].”

“Then they are either incompetent or they think I’m blind.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk.

“Which one is it?”

“Does it matter?” Rocco asked. “The disrespect is the same.”

He was right. It didn’t matter.

A message needed to be sent.

I picked up my gun from the desk, running my fingers over the cold steel.

“Send a team to visit their capo in Naples,” I said. “Make sure they understand their debt will be paid—one way or another.”

“Sí, Boss.” Rocco inclined his head.

I leaned back in my chair, stretching my fingers against the armrests.

“And if they refuse?”

Rocco smirked. “Then we take a head for every kilo.”

I smiled coldly. “Esattamente [Exactly.].”

A sharp knock interrupted us before the door opened, and Andre, one of my men, stepped inside. He carried a tablet in his hand, his expression carefully neutral.

“Boss,” he said. “The target was spotted this morning at Milan Airport.”

I didn’t react right away. Instead, I reached for my cigarette case, pulling one out and lighting it with slow, lazy movements. The flame flickered before I snapped the lighter shut.

“Is that so?” I murmured, exhaling a stream of smoke.

Andre placed the tablet on my desk.

“We have footage.”

I leaned forward, flicking the ash from my cigarette before pressing play.

The screen showed security footage from Milan’s airport. A lone figure stepping through the arrivals terminal.

My lips curled into a smirk.

I removed my glasses and placed them beside my whiskey.

“And why is that?” I asked, my voice slow, almost lazy.

“No intel yet, Boss,” Andre replied.

“Do you want our men in Milan to handle it?”

I tapped the cigarette against the ashtray, watching the embers burn.

“No,” I said finally. “Leave it to me.”

Andre frowned slightly, but he knew better than to question me.

“Prepare the jet,” I ordered.

It had been a long time since I had set foot in Italy. Time to pay padrino [godfather] a visit.

Rocco hesitated. “Sir, you can’t go yet. Not while—”

“Enough.” My voice dropped an octave, cold and final.

“Non posso continuare a scappare [I can’t keep running forever] ,” I muttered, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray.

“It’s time to settle some scores.”

~Italy – Milan~

The jet landed in Milan under the cover of darkness. The moment the wheels touched the tarmac, I was already unbuckling my seatbelt, stretching my fingers. I hated planes.

As I stepped onto the runway, the scent of Italy washed over me. Espresso, leather, and the faintest trace of gunpowder.

Two black SUVs waited at the edge of the tarmac. My men loaded the luggage while I slid into the backseat of the lead vehicle.

“To the castle,” I ordered.

The drive was quiet. The city lights faded into the countryside, the roads narrowing as we approached Castello Romano, the beating heart of my past.

I was born with nothing.

No name. No past. No future.

The streets of Toronto were my first home. The cold, cracked sidewalks, the alleyways stinking of piss and filth. Those were my childhood playgrounds. I slept where I could, ate what I found, and trusted no one.

By the time I was ten, I had already learned that kindness was a luxury the weak couldn’t afford.

And I was never weak.

Not even the night I nearly died.

It was winter. The kind that turned your breath into smoke and your fingers stiff with frostbite. I had spent the last three days starving, surviving off scraps I picked from behind a restaurant on Queen Street. But hunger made men greedy, and I wasn’t the only one trying to survive.

The gang of beggars had been watching me. I should have seen it coming.

“Oi, kid,” one of them sneered, cornering me in an alleyway.

“Been makin’ some nice coin, huh? Hand it over.”

I gripped my knife tighter, the rusty blade tucked in the sleeve of my worn-out, oversized coat.

“It’s mine.”

The man’s face twisted with amusement.

“That so? You wanna do this the hard way?”

There were four of them. Bigger. Stronger. But I wasn’t afraid. Fear was for people with something to lose.

One lunged, but I was faster.

The blade sank into his eye socket before he could even scream.

Blood gushed over my hands, warm despite the freezing cold. The others hesitated for just a second, long enough for me to grab the dead man’s coat and run.

I didn’t make it far.

The black convoy appeared like a phantom at the end of the alley. The lead car rolled to a stop, its tinted window lowering with a slow mechanical hum.

That was the first time I saw him.

Don Enzo Romano.

He wasn’t an old man back then. He was in his forties, dressed in a tailored suit, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back. His eyes were dark, sharp, amused. He looked at me the way a scientist might look at an animal in a cage—curious and calculating.

“You’re talented, ragazzo [boy],” he mused, his deep voice smooth like aged whiskey.

“Will you be my son?”

I stood there, hands covered in another man’s blood, my heart still pounding in my chest.

It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation, a deal and without hesitation, I accepted.

That was the night Valentino Romano was born.

The castle loomed at the top of the hill, its stone walls wrapped in ivy.

This was the place I had once called home.

The guards at the entrance stiffened as we pulled up, their grips tightening on their weapons.

“Il Diavolo di Milano è tornato [The Devil of Milan has returned.]”

Rocco and I stepped through the grand entrance, the scent of cigars and aged wood filling my lungs. And there, at the head of the dining table, sat the man who had made me what I am today.

Don Enzo Romano.

My godfather.

He was older now, his silver hair thinner, his face more lined. But his eyes? Still sharp. Still calculating.

He took a slow drag of his cigar before finally speaking.

“So, you finally decided to come to Italy.” His voice was rough, like gravel on stone.

“I thought you would avoid me until after my death.”

I stepped forward and kneeled before him, a show of respect I gave to no one else. “I would never avoid you, padrino,” I said, kissing the ring on his weathered hand.

He exhaled, the smoke curling between us.

“You’re a good liar, ragazzo.”

I smirked but said nothing.

His gaze roamed over me, sharp and calculating. “You’ve been restless,” he muttered. “Too bloodthirsty. Too reckless. That temper of yours will get you killed one day.”

“I’ve been handling business,” I corrected smoothly.

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. He knew I was good at what I did. I was brutal, efficient, and utterly ruthless.

But then he sighed, leaning back.

“That’s why I want you to marry.”

I stilled.

This was the exact reason I had been avoiding Italy. Padrino wanted me to get married, said I was thirty-five and it was time to settle down.

But I wasn’t one to tolerate women and their troubles. Women were just tools in my eyes—just for fun, something to fill my bed on a Friday night. I had never thought of falling in love with one or making a family.

But padrino had been on my neck for a year now.

In fact, he wouldn’t let me take the Don title unless I married.

“A wife. A family,” he continued. “A reason to think before you pull the trigger. You need an anchor, Tino. Someone to keep you from becoming a monster.”

I inhaled slowly, measuring my words before I spoke.

“I’ve already found someone.”

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

“Our civil wedding is scheduled for tomorrow at the Comune di Milano at 10 a.m. I hope you will grace the event with your presence, Padrino.”

His lips curled into a slow, pleased smile.

“Good boy.”

But then his expression darkened.

“Marriage is not just a title. If you take this step, you must be responsible. I want a wife who will ground you, give you a reason to live. A family is power, Tino. Never forget that.”

“I don’t want you to be like me. No wife, no children of my own. Now I’m old and wrinkled, and there’s no one to keep me company. I want the best for you.”

I exhaled slowly. “I understand, padrino.”

He patted my shoulder, the closest thing to affection he ever gave.

“I can’t wait to meet the beautiful woman who has captured your heart, and I’ll make sure no one disrupts your wedding tomorrow. It will go smoothly.”

I smirked.

“Thank you, Padrino.”

I had dinner with him, we discussed business, and then bid him farewell.

As soon as I slid into the back of the SUV, Rocco turned to me, his expression tense.

“Sir,” he said carefully. “Why did you lie to the Don? You know he hates being deceived.”

I smirked, tilting my head slightly. “I didn’t lie.”

Rocco frowned. “Sir?”

I leaned back, exhaling slowly, watching the glow of the city fade into the countryside. The roads were dark, empty, silent—just how I liked them.

“Didn’t you say our target landed in Italy?”

Rocco stiffened, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. A slow realization crept across his face.

“Wait… are you—”

I shot him a sharp look, cutting him off.

“What I’m planning is none of your business,” I said smoothly, my voice calm but cold.

Rocco swallowed hard. “Understood, Boss.”

I turned my gaze back to the window, watching the neon lights blur past.

“Where is she right now?”

Rocco glanced down at the tablet on his lap.

“She’s currently heading to the Inferno Club.”

Inferno Club? What could a naive woman like her be looking for in such a dangerous place?

Well, we shall see.

A slow, dark smile curled on my lips as I pulled my gun from its holster, checked the chamber, then slid it back into place.

“Take me to her. It’s time to meet my little bride.”