Luca
Blood made men loyal. Blood made men dangerous. And tonight, blood would bind an empire. Luca Camorra stood at the head of the long mahogany table, with his hands braced against the polished surface, and his shoulders squared beneath his tailored black suit. The room was thick with cigar smoke and tension—old, familiar, and suffocating. It was the kind of tension that came before violence.
His men waited for him to give them their next orders. They were more than capos and enforcers—they were family. All eyes were on him, but Luca didn’t acknowledge them yet. He stared instead at the single folder lying open in front of him. One name was typed neatly across the top—Isabella Romano. She wasn’t just the daughter of his enemy; she was also his bride-to-be. The very thought of having to marry her just sat wrong in his chest. It was a slow burn of fury he’d learned to control years ago. Emotions had no place at this table. His father had beaten that lesson into him long before Luca had earned his first scar.
“The Romanos are expecting the engagement announcement within the week,” his uncle Matteo said.
Luca finally lifted his gaze. Cold, calculated, and deadly calm. “Expectations don’t concern me,” he said evenly, “resultsdo.” A murmur moved around the table, quickly silenced when he cleared his throat. No one challenged Luca Camorra—not since he’d taken over the family at just thirty-two and turned hesitation into fear.
Matteo leaned back in his chair, studying him. “This marriage ends the war.”
Luca let out a humorless breath. “No, it pauses the war.” He knew for a fact that peace built on pacts was never permanent.
The Romano family had cost him more than just territory and more than money. They’d taken his uncle—his mother’s brother—and left his body displayed like a warning on the docks. Luca had personally ordered the retaliation. Three Romano captains were buried—one was still alive when they put him in the ground. They left him there long enough to beg for his life. And now Luca was supposed to put a ring on their princess’s finger and call an end to the war that they had started.
Luca straightened, buttoning his jacket with precise movements. Control was everything to him now. He knew from experience that appearances mattered. The Camorra family didn’t bend—they calculated their next move.
“I want her watched,” he continued. “From the moment she gets here.”
Matteo nodded. “It’s already arranged.”
“I mean it. I want every step she makes, every call she places, and every breath that she takes reported back to me.” Luca’s voice hardened. “If she’s here to spy?—”
“She won’t get the chance,” his enforcer Dante said from the far end of the table. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Luca met Dante’s eyes. “No. She’ll be mine to deal with.” Because if Isabella Romano thought she could walk into his house and play spy, then she was already dead to him.
The meeting ended swiftly after that. Luca gave his orders and dismissed his men. The room emptied, leaving Luca alone with the folder and the ghosts it carried.
He closed it slowly, trying to shut away the past, but that would never happen—not really. There was no way that he could forget or forgive what the Romanos did to his family. Marrying Isabella wasn’t a part of his plan, but he had to do it if he wanted to keep his family safe. If he had his way, he’d burn down the entire Romano family—Isabella included.
He hadn’t planned on getting married. Hell, he never wanted to be tied down to one person for the rest of his life. He didn’t do love. Love was leverage, and leverage got men killed. His father’s death had proven that. Love was just weakness disguised as devotion, and Luca had sworn he would never make the same mistake as his father had.
A knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” he growled.
Dante stepped inside. “The security team has been briefed. And—” He hesitated, and Luca knew that he wasn’t going to like what he said next. “There’s something else.”
Luca’s jaw tightened. “Just spit it out,” he grumbled, his mood growing worse by the second.
“The Romano girl, she insisted on one condition before she agreed to marry you,” Dante said. Luca groaned out loud. The last thing he needed was for his bride-to-be to demand things that he wasn’t willing to give her.
“She doesn’t get conditions,” Luca growled.
“She says she’ll agree to the marriage,” Dante continued carefully, “but only if she keeps her own last name—Romano.” Silence stretched between them. Then Luca laughed—low, dangerous, and devoid of humor.
“She’s bold,” he said.
“Or stupid,” Dante countered. Luca turned toward the window overlooking the city. New York glittered below him, akingdom he ruled with blood and fear. Every inch of it had been earned.
“She’ll learn,” he said quietly. “When she becomes my wife, there will be no Romano. There will only be Camorra.” Because once she crossed his threshold, Isabella Romano would belong to him—whether she liked it or not. And God help anyone who tried to take what was his.
The war would end as soon as Isabella put on a white dress and said her vows. And Luca Camorra would decide whether his bride lived as a queen or died as a traitor. But first, he was going to pay a little visit to her father, to make sure that he upheld his end of the deal. This time, he’d leave no room for doubt about who was in charge.
New York City never slept, but Luca preferred it that way—because neither did he. Darkness stripped people down to what they really were—liars, sinners, and even survivors. And tonight, the streets of New York pulsed with all three.
Luca stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored slacks, and the other wrapped loosely around a glass of amber liquid he hadn’t touched. Below him, the skyline glittered like diamonds dipped in blood—beautiful, dangerous, and entirely his. Or at least, it soon would be.
“Shipment came in clean,” Marco said from behind him. Marco was a Camorra and Luca’s cousin. He was as loyal as they came. Luca didn’t turn around or even acknowledge him. Marco had been with him long enough to know that silence didn’t meanhe wasn’t listening. It meant he was thinking—and that was always more dangerous.
