The private lounge was dimly lit, the scent of expensive whiskey and gunpowder lingering in the air. Adrian leaned back in the leather chair, one hand cradling a glass of scotch, the other drumming against the polished wood of the table.
His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, a stark contrast to the violence that had unfolded hours ago. Across from him, Lorenzo exhaled a slow breath, shaking his head with a smirk.
"That was fucking brutal, boss," Lorenzo said, swirling his drink. "The DiMario gang? Gone. Just like that. Word's spreading fast."
Adrian chuckled, the sound low and amused. "They thought they could play in my city. That was their first mistake. Their second? Thinking I'd let them walk away." He took a slow sip, the ice clinking against the glass.
"Since we've set our eyes on Kristen city, they all have to bow to terror." He continued with a dark gleam in his eyes.
Lorenzo smirked, shaking his head. "You're a fucking menace, Adrian."
Adrian tilted his head, his gaze sharp. "No, Lorenzo. I'm a king. And kings don't tolerate threats."
Lorenzo lifted his glass in a silent toast. "To power, then."
Adrian's smirk deepened as he clinked his glass against Lorenzo's. "To chaos."
___
Adrian and Lorenzo were forged in the fire of a war-torn land, where age was irrelevant, and weapons were mere toys in the hands of children. Blood was a thirst that could never be fully quenched, and death became a daily necessity. Adrian's introduction to the brutality of man came at the age of three, when his father slaughtered his two older brothers right before his eyes, forcing him to take his mother's life in a violent clash between their warring factions.
He was shaped by the unrelenting shadows of his father's empire, the cruelty and bloodshed flowing through him like a second nature. Each lesson in savagery carved him into something darker, until the day his father fell at his hands. The title of 'Death God' became his birthright, a name now spoken in hushed fear. And with the rise of his own empire, Deluca, a new reign of terror born in the fires of vengeance and bloodshed began to unfold under his rule.
Adrian didn't just rule the streets; he owned them. His rise in the criminal hierarchy was carved in the bodies of those foolish enough to challenge him. He wasn't just ruthless—he was methodical, a ghost in the night who wiped out entire factions without leaving a trace. His reputation wasn't built on whispers alone; it was built on corpses.
A man in his mid-twenties, his face carried the kind of beauty that lured people into a false sense of security—smooth charm, a wicked smirk, and eyes that could promise either salvation or destruction. But behind that allure was a predator, a man whose hands were stained with blood, whose enemies never lived to speak his name again.
The door to the private lounge creaked open. A man stumbled in, clutching his side, blood seeping through his shirt. Marco, one of their enforcers.
Adrian barely lifted a brow. "I thought I told you not to bleed on my floors, Marco."
Marco coughed, groaning as he slumped against the wall. "Boss… we got a problem."
Lorenzo straightened. "The fuck happened?"
Marco's breath was ragged. "One of the DiMario men… he got away. We thought we had them all, but this bastard… he's alive. And he's got something we didn't account for."
Adrian's smirk didn't falter, but his eyes darkened. He leaned forward, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "And what exactly does he have, Marco?"
The wounded enforcer swallowed hard before muttering, "A witness."
Silence stretched between them.
Lorenzo exhaled sharply. "Son of a bitch."
Adrian rolled his shoulders, his smirk shifting into something more dangerous. "Then I guess we have unfinished business. Lorenzo, let's go hunting."
Lorenzo grinned as he downed the rest of his drink. "Now this just got interesting."
Adrian stood, adjusting his cuffs, his voice smooth and deadly. "Let's remind them why you don't fuck with the Delucas."
____
The warehouse smelled of oil and damp concrete, its vast emptiness filled only by the slow drip of water from the rusted pipes above. The tension was thick, humming in the air like an unspoken promise of violence.
Adrian stood in the center of it all, exuding calm authority. The dim lighting cast sharp shadows on his face, his expression unreadable as he watched the man kneeling before him. Blood smeared the concrete floor where Marco and the others had dragged him in, a bruised, trembling mess of what used to be a DiMario soldier.
Lorenzo leaned against a steel pillar, arms crossed, watching with a smirk. "Took us a while to find you, buddy. You should've run farther."
The man coughed, spitting blood at his feet. "Go to hell."
Adrian crouched in front of him, tilting his head slightly. "You first." His voice was smooth, almost amused, but his eyes were cold. "Now, let's talk about the witness."
The man stiffened. His gaze darted toward the far side of the warehouse.
Adrian caught the movement instantly. His smirk deepened. "Lorenzo."
Lorenzo already had his gun drawn, striding toward the crates stacked in the corner. There was a slight rustling—a sharp intake of breath—before a figure bolted.
A woman.
She didn't get far. Lorenzo had her pinned against the wall within seconds, his forearm pressing just enough to keep her still.
"Well, well," he murmured. "Didn't expect this."
Adrian rose slowly, his gaze locking onto her. She was young—early twenties at most—her wild, frightened eyes darting between them. She was dressed in dark clothes, but her presence here wasn't just a coincidence.
Adrian took a step closer, watching her carefully. "Who are you?"
She swallowed hard, defiance flickering in her gaze despite the fear. "Let me go."
Lorenzo chuckled. "Not happening, sweetheart."
Adrian studied her in silence. Then, finally, he said, "Kill him."
The order was cold. Absolute.
The man on his knees thrashed. "No—wait! Please—"