DANTE FALCONE'S POV
Velmont City was alive in a way only men like him could understand. It breathed in the scent of gasoline and gunpowder, exhaling in clouds of cigar smoke from the old men who ran the streets. Every alley had its ghosts—whispers of blood spilled, names carved into history with the tip of a blade.
From behind the wheel of his black Maserati, Dante Falcone watched the neon lights flicker in the distance. Bars, clubs, backroom casinos—each a kingdom of its own, ruled by men who thought they were untouchable.
They weren't.
His cigarette burned between his fingers, the bitter smoke curling through the leather interior of his car. Then the call came.
His phone buzzed in the center console, the number flashing across the screen.
Gio. His right-hand man.
Dante pressed the button on his Bluetooth speaker, already knowing whatever Gio had to say wasn't good.
"We got a problem."
Dante's grip on the wheel tightened. "What kind of problem?"
"Luca's in the hospital."
For a moment, the city around him faded. The hum of the engine, the distant sirens, the drunken laughter spilling from sidewalks—it all blurred into the background.
"He got jumped at La Sombra."
Dante's jaw clenched. La Sombra. A place that walked the fine line between respectability and lawlessness. If Luca had been attacked there, it wasn't random. Someone had made a move.
"Who?" His voice was quiet, but the threat in it was unmistakable.
There was a brief hesitation. Then, Gio's answer.
"Valencia's men."
A slow, burning rage coiled in Dante's chest.
Dante didn't waste time with more questions. He ended the call and pressed down on the gas. Threw away his burning cigarettes and roared the Maserati to life, weaving through the streets with effortless precision. Someone was going to pay for this.
———-
The hospital's bright neon sign shone against the dark cityscape, the red letters reflecting off the wet pavement. It was past midnight, but the emergency room was still alive—people limping in from bar fights, worried mothers clutching their sick children, and exhausted nurses moving between patients with blank, overworked expressions.
Dante pulled his black Maserati into a no-parking zone right by the entrance. No one would dare tow it.
The second he stepped out, his men were waiting at Luca's hospital door, three of them, standing stiffly, their faces tense.
"Boss."
Dante's presence was enough to send a ripple of tension through the air. He wasn't a man who showed up at hospitals unless things had gone very, very wrong.
Marco stepped forward first, his face tight. "Luca's inside. They had to stitch him up."
Dante adjusted the cuffs of his tailored black jacket, his expression unreadable. "Who?" His voice was calm. Too calm.
Marco swallowed. "Emilio's guy. We don't have a name yet. But Luca got into it with him, and it escalated."
Dante's jaw tightened. "Escalated? He's in a fucking hospital, Marco. That's beyond 'escalated.'"
The other men shifted uneasily. Everyone knew what Dante was like when he was angry.
Marco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "Luca's friend, Enzo, was there. He said the fight started after some dumb argument. Emilio's guy threw the first punch."
Dante gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable.
"And what did my men do?" His voice was quiet. Dangerous.
The men hesitated.
Marco cleared his throat. "They... well, they fought back."
"And yet, my cousin is in a hospital bed while Emilio's guy is walking free?" Dante's gaze swept over them, cold and sharp.
The silence was enough.
Dante turned on his heel and walked through the hospital doors, leaving his men standing there like they'd just dodged a bullet—or delayed it.
---
Dante ignored the nurses who gave him weird looks and made his way inside Luca's room.
When he stepped inside, Luca was sitting up in bed, bandages wrapped around his ribs, his left arm in a sling, and a deep cut above his brow. He looked like he'd gone twelve rounds with a professional boxer and lost.
Luca had always been a reckless bastard, running into danger like it was some exciting game. He was young, arrogant, untouchable. At least, he thought he was.
Dante never stopped him. Never had the time to.
He was running an empire, making sure their family didn't get ripped apart from the inside. Babysitting his dead sister's adventurous, impulsive kid? That had never been on his list of priorities.
And now, this.
Dante's eyes swept over Luca again. The hospital bed didn't suit him. Luca was supposed to be standing, smirking, stirring up more trouble than he could handle. Not lying there like some broken street punk.
Dante stood at the foot of the bed, hands buried in his pockets. His cousin's fingers shook against the sheets, fists clenching and unclenching as though he were imagining wrapping them around someone's throat.
"Tell me what happened," Dante said, voice cool, calculated.
Luca exhaled sharply, jaw clenching. "It was supposed to be simple," he muttered, voice tight with barely contained anger. "The bastard owed us money. Kept making excuses. I went to remind him that our generosity isn't free."
Dante arched an eyebrow. "And then?"
"Then Emilio's guy showed up."
Dante's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes. "He was there?"
Luca's good eye locked onto Dante's. "Yeah. Sitting in the damn bar while I was handling business. Didn't say a word at first. Just watched."
Dante hummed a thoughtful sound. "And what did you do?"
Luca let out a humorless chuckle. "I ignored him. The man owed us—he wasn't walking away without paying for it. But Emilio's guy? He didn't like that."
Luca's smirk twisted into something cruel. "So he decided to teach me a lesson. He didn't lay a hand on me, no. But the next thing I knew, a couple of his guys were there too. And suddenly, the bar wasn't so friendly anymore."
Dante remained still, processing the weight of Luca's words. "You're saying Emilio's guy started the fight?" he asked, voice measured.
Luca exhaled sharply. "I'm saying he let it happen. He made it happen." His eyes darkened. "He humiliated me, Dante. In front of our people. In front of his people."
A dangerous silence settled between them.
Dante's lips curved into something dark, something knowing.
"Then we make sure he does," he murmured.
And just like that, the war wasn't just brewing anymore. It had begun.
Dante walked out of the hospital, his mind a quiet storm. Marco straightened when he saw him.
"Boss?"
Dante pulled out another cigarette, lighting it with steady hands. Then, with a voice as sharp as broken glass, he said, "Find out exactly who did it. Names. Faces. Where they sleep."
Marco nodded. "On it."
Dante took another drag. If Emilio wanted to play games, he had picked the wrong opponent.
"And Emilio?" Marco asked carefully.
Dante flicked his cigarette onto the pavement, crushing it beneath his polished shoe. His voice was cold when he answered.
"Send him a message."
Marco hesitated. "A warning?"
Dante's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"No. Give him my promise"