The heavy iron gates groaned as they swung open, flooding the dim-lit corridor with a sliver of pale morning light. The scent of damp concrete and metal filled my nostrils—familiar, suffocating. I stepped forward, my boots echoing against the worn floor. Ten years. Ten goddamn years.
A guard watched me from the side, his baton resting lazily against his hip. "You're free to go, De Luca," he muttered, but there was no kindness in his voice. They all looked at me the same way—like a man who should have rotted in here forever.
I didn't acknowledge him. My attention was locked on the towering gates ahead, on the world beyond these walls. I rolled my shoulders, adjusting to the absence of shackles.
One step. Another.
The wind hit me first—crisp, biting, real. Then the sun, golden rays washing over my skin. I had almost forgotten what it felt like. Outside, a sleek black Ferrari idled at the curb, its presence demanding attention. My ride.
I approached without hesitation, gripping the door handle and sliding into the leather seat. The scent of expensive cologne and new leather filled the cabin.
"You're late," I muttered.
From the driver's seat, a familiar chuckle sounded. "Traffic," Dante said, his grin sharp, hands relaxed on the wheel. "Miss me?"
I exhaled through my nose. "Drive."
The engine growled as he pulled onto the road. Milan unfolded before me—familiar streets, but everything had changed. Or maybe I had.
Dante stole a glance at me. "Ten years in a cage, and you still look like a king."
I didn't reply. My gaze was on the city, on the people walking freely, oblivious to the ghosts that haunted these streets. My ghosts.
I rolled my right hand into a fist, the cool weight of my ring pressing against my finger. The De Luca family crest gleamed in the light—gold, heavy, suffocating. A brand. A reminder of the betrayal that put me behind bars.
I turned my hand, noticing the blood smeared across my knuckles. Fresh. My jaw tightened.
Dante smirked. "Didn't take you long to get back into the game, huh?"
I wiped the blood off against my pants. "Business."
His grin widened, but he didn't press. He knew better.
The Ferrari weaved through the streets, past towering glass buildings and old stone architecture. Milan was a city of contrasts—elegance and corruption walking hand in hand.
Dante cleared his throat. "Your father's waiting at Diamante."
Of course he was.
My fingers tapped against my knee. The last time I saw Don De Luca, he had looked me in the eye and sentenced me to a decade in hell. His own son.
Dante must have sensed my mood shift because he added, "You don't have to go straight to him. We can make a stop. A drink. A woman. Whatever you need."
I turned to him, my expression unreadable. "I need answers."
Dante nodded. No more jokes.
The city blurred past, a mix of old and new, rich and poor. Milan had always been beautiful, but beneath its surface, it was a battlefield. And I was stepping back onto the front lines.
Fifteen minutes later, the car rolled to a stop in front of Diamante—the De Luca family's empire. A luxurious high-rise, the exterior sleek and modern, but beneath the polished surface, it was built on blood money.
I stepped out, adjusting my suit jacket. The doorman barely had time to open the entrance before I walked through, my stride unhurried but deliberate.
Inside, the air was cool, the scent of rich cigars and aged whiskey clinging to the walls. I ignored the stares, the murmurs of employees whispering my name. They all thought I was dead or forgotten.
I wasn't.
I took the elevator to the top floor. The doors slid open, revealing an office I had once walked into as a son. Now? I walked in as something else.
The office was unchanged—dark wood, marble floors, a massive desk that dominated the space. And behind it, seated like a king on his throne, was Don De Luca.
His eyes met mine. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair. "Adonis."
I didn't answer. My gaze flickered to the whiskey glass in his hand, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked… pleased. Like he had expected this moment, planned for it.
My fingers curled at my sides. This man—my father—had traded my life away.
And now, here we were.
Face to face.
I took a slow step forward, letting the tension stretch between us like a razor-thin wire.
"You look well," he said, voice smooth, controlled.
"Prison does wonders for a man," I replied flatly.
His smirk deepened. "I suppose it does."
I stopped in front of his desk, placing my hands on the polished wood. My ring clinked against the surface. His gaze flicked to it, then back to my face.
"Why?" My voice was low, controlled, but the weight behind it was undeniable.
Don De Luca swirled his whiskey, watching the amber liquid shift. "Why what, figlio mio?"
The term made my blood boil. My son. He had no right to call me that.
"You sold me out." The words tasted like venom. "To the mafia. To Giorgio Giovanni."
He sighed, setting his glass down. "It was necessary."
"Necessary?" My voice dropped lower, dangerous. "You traded your own blood for power."
A silence settled between us. Heavy.
Then, Don De Luca said something that made my pulse spike.
"I did what was best for the family."
The family. That word. That excuse.
I exhaled slowly, forcing the fury back. This wasn't the time to lose control. Not yet.
But one thing was clear.
This was just the beginning.
And I wasn't walking away without answers.