Chapter 3 -THE DE LUCA EMPIRE
Power was a language, and Lorenzo De Luca spoke it fluently.
From the 52nd floor of the De Luca Tower, Milan stretched beneath him like a living map — elegant, trembling, his to command. The city’s pulse beat in sync with his empire: the docks, the banks, the tech corridors, the men in suits who smiled in daylight and bled in the dark.
The morning sunlight poured through the glass walls of his office, glinting off the chrome fixtures and the black marble desk that dominated the room. A painting hung behind him — Caravaggio’s Judith Beheading Holofernes. He liked the symbolism. Ruthless beauty. Necessary violence.
Lorenzo adjusted his cufflinks — platinum, engraved with the De Luca crest — and turned to face the men gathered around the boardroom table.
There were six of them, all powerful, all afraid.
“Gentlemen,” Lorenzo said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. “We’ll begin.”
The meeting was about the Morandi deal — a rival family’s attempt to buy into one of Lorenzo’s shipping subsidiaries under the guise of partnership. It was clever, but not clever enough.
One of the board members, an older man named Rinaldi, cleared his throat. “Signor De Luca, the Morandis are offering thirty percent over market value. It would be foolish to—”
“To sell to thieves?” Lorenzo interrupted. “No. It would be weak.”
Rinaldi faltered. “With respect, their influence in the ports—”
Lorenzo’s gaze cut through him like glass. “Their influence exists because I allow it. Do you need me to remind you why the Morandi patriarch sends me a bottle of wine every Christmas?”
Silence.
Because six years ago, Lorenzo had dismantled half their operations overnight — a single shipment seized, a series of debts called in, and three of their top men arrested for smuggling. The message had been clear: You play in my city; you play by my rules.
Lorenzo leaned forward, his tone calm, almost conversational. “We don’t negotiate with parasites. We eliminate them.”
Across the table, his legal advisor, Marco Vitale, gave a subtle nod. “Already done, sir. We’ve acquired their warehouse lease through a shell firm in Zurich. They’ll find out when their access is revoked this afternoon.”
A faint smile ghosted over Lorenzo’s lips. “Efficient, as always.”
Rinaldi swallowed hard. “You… already made the move?”
“I don’t wait for approval to protect what’s mine,” Lorenzo said simply.
He poured himself a glass of espresso from the tray at his side, took a sip, and continued as though nothing had happened. “Now, let’s discuss the Istanbul expansion. Marco, where do we stand?”
While Marco spoke, the others listened with nervous obedience. Lorenzo’s attention drifted to the city below. His reflection in the glass stared back at him — cold, immaculate, unreadable.
To the world, he was everything his father had built and more: billionaire, visionary, philanthropist. But beneath the polish lay the rot his father had left behind — debts paid in silence, favors owed in blood.
He was not the man the city worshiped.
He was the one it feared.
The meeting ended with quiet relief. When the last of them left, Lorenzo remained by the window, rolling his cuffs and considering the thin line between order and chaos.
The knock on the door came soft, cautious.
“Come in,” he said.
A woman entered — Bianca Ferri, his assistant. Young, efficient, the only one who dared interrupt him without fear.
“Your afternoon schedule, sir,” she said, placing a tablet on his desk. “You have the charity board review at four, dinner with the senator at seven, and—”
She hesitated.
“And?” Lorenzo prompted.
“A new consultant,” she said. “For the De Luca Foundation. She was personally recommended by your PR division. Isabella Moretti.”
Lorenzo paused, the name lingering in his mind like a scent he couldn’t place.
He remembered the woman in the black dress from the gala — the sharp wit, the quiet defiance in her eyes.
“She’s already in the building,” Bianca added.
He nodded once. “Send her up in ten minutes.”
While he waited, Lorenzo poured himself a drink — whiskey, neat. He didn’t need it, but ritual mattered. The amber liquid caught the light as he swirled it in the glass.
The woman had intrigued him. That didn’t happen often. Most people were predictable — driven by greed, fear, or ambition. But Isabella Moretti… she’d looked at him like she knew the weight of every sin he’d ever committed and didn’t flinch.
It wasn’t attraction, not exactly. It was curiosity — dangerous, persistent, and unwelcome.
He set the glass down as the door opened.
“Miss Moretti,” Bianca announced.
Isabella stepped inside.
The same calm composure, the same elegant simplicity — white silk blouse, dark pencil skirt, hair swept up to reveal the graceful line of her neck. She carried herself like someone who belonged anywhere she chose to stand.
“Signor De Luca,” she greeted, her voice even.
“Miss Moretti,” he replied, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “Please.”
She sat, crossing her legs, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
“I hear you have experience with reputation management,” he said.
“I do. I help men of power appear… less terrifying,” she said, her lips curving faintly.
“Is that how you see me? Terrifying?”
“I think,” she said slowly, “you’re a man people mistake for a myth. My job is to remind them you’re human.”
His mouth quirked. “And if I’m not?”
“Then I’ll make them believe you are.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them — taut, electric. The air carried something unspoken, the first thread of a connection neither could afford.
Finally, Lorenzo leaned back. “You’ll start with the Foundation. I want every headline to scream generosity, stability, virtue. We’re expanding our charity operations — and I want Milan to see it.”
“Of course,” Isabella said smoothly. “But if I’m to make people see the good, I’ll need to understand the man behind it.”
He studied her carefully. “Be careful what you wish for, Miss Moretti. People don’t always like what they find.”
“I’m not easily scared.”
“I can tell.”
He stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “Bianca will provide you access credentials and workspace. We’ll speak again soon.”
She rose, thanked him, and turned to leave.
But at the door, she paused. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t delegate trust easily.”
He smiled, cold and precise. “Trust is a currency, Miss Moretti. One I spend sparingly.”
Then, softer: “Let’s see if you can earn it.”
After she left, Lorenzo stared at the door for a long moment. There was something in her tone — not the flattery of most consultants, but an edge, a history.
He poured another drink and turned to the city once more.
Below, Milan glittered — loyal, faithless, alive.
He had crushed rivals, silenced traitors, and carried an empire built on the bones of men like Alessandro Romano.
But for the first time in years, he felt the faintest echo of something he didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t fear.
Not yet.
It was disturbance.
Down in the lobby, Isabella walked out of the De Luca Tower into the cold afternoon light. Her heart was hammering, though her face betrayed nothing.
She’d stood in front of the man who’d destroyed her life — and he hadn’t known her.
The predator hadn’t recognized the prey he’d created.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the locket’s outline beneath her blouse.
“Phase one,” she whispered. “Complete.”
Behind her, the glass tower loomed — a monument to power, arrogance, and blood.
She glanced up once more at the top floor, where Lorenzo De Luca ruled his empire, and murmured,
“Enjoy your kingdom, Don. Because soon, it will all burn.”