Chapter 65
Victor let out a short, sharp scoff, "Vitale, don't get too cocky. Simon escaped, but my men are tracking him."
"You should relax and let me do my job."
Victor walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another glass of whiskey, "You know what happened to our great-grandfather. He died under the enemy's gun for that cursed love. I don't want to see you make the same mistake."
Vitale could hear the concern in Victor's words, even though it was wrapped in a harsh tone.
He changed the subject, "Alright. What's the next plan?"
"Plan?" Victor downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, the glass making a sharp clink as he slammed it back on the table, "Of course, it's to take them out—Costa, Jackson, and that traitor Simon."
He paused for a moment, "Speaking of which, this isn't Simon's first betrayal. There's a second time. Did you know that?"
Vitale narrowed his eyes.
As Victor spoke, the open collar of his shirt revealed the family tattoo—a leopard that looked ready to leap off his skin.
Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling window, hitting the leopard's eyes and making them glint dangerously in the dark.
"How do you know?" Vitale asked.
"Because Colt spilled it when he was drunk," Victor said, his voice turning cold, "He said Simon was already one of us long ago, and there's worse..."
He turned to face Vitale, "Now everyone knows Isabella is your weakness, Vitale. You've brought big trouble on yourself."
But Vitale smiled, a relaxed grin that clashed with the tense atmosphere, "No, Victor. Isabella isn't my weakness."
"She's my goddess, my muse. If one day she agrees to marry me and have my children..."
His gaze softened, "I'd be so happy I could die."
Victor's eyes widened as if he'd just heard the most ridiculous joke, "My God, Vitale! Having kids with this Isabella? You've already thought that far ahead?"
He strode over to Vitale, his voice rising in shock, "What's next? Are you going to tell me you're planning to leave the family and sell burgers on the street corner?"
Vitale didn't answer right away.
He turned to the window, looking down at the stream of cars still moving in the early morning hours.
Countless headlights cut through the darkness, like shooting stars falling to earth.
Each car carried strangers, each stranger living a life that had nothing to do with him.
But among all those unfamiliar faces, there was only one that made him willing to give up everything just for a single smile.
Victor grew uneasy with the silence.
He stubbed out his cigar and marched over to Vitale, shoving him down onto the couch, "I want the truth, Vitale. You're not the kind of fool who gets distracted by a woman. Tell me this isn't real."
Vitale lay back on the couch, squinting up at Victor holding him down.
They'd grown up together and fought plenty of times.
Back when they were kids, Victor wasn't as bulky, and Vitale often pinned him to the ground.
But now, at forty, Victor's muscles bulged, his fist alone bigger than Vitale's by a good margin.
Anyone who didn't know them would bet on Victor in a fight.
"Let me go, Victor." Vitale said calmly.
Victor didn't budge.
In the next second, Vitale's fist slammed into Victor's stomach.
"Damn it!" Victor grunted, forced to let go.
Vitale flipped up like a leopard, and the two launched into a raw, hand-to-hand fight in the spacious office.
This wasn't brotherly roughhousing—it was a clash between two top fighters.
Victor had the edge in strength, each punch whistling through the air.
But Vitale was quicker, dodging attacks by mere millimeters like a dancer on a knife's edge, striking back with precision.
A glass table shattered under Victor's heavy blow.
Vitale grabbed a broken table leg, raising it to strike, but stopped just an inch from Victor's throat with the sharp splinter.
"Don't come at me again, Victor," Vitale panted, sweat dripping down his sharp jawline, "and don't talk about my weaknesses."
Victor sat on the floor, wiping blood from his lip, but a grin spread across his face, "You're still the same as when we were kids—can't control your temper."
He pointed at his torn suit, "This was custom-made from Savile Row. You owe me."
Vitale tossed the table leg aside, chuckling as he offered a hand, "One of my boxers costs more than your suit, Victor."
Victor took his hand and pulled himself up.
They looked at each other and laughed, the earlier fight feeling like just another brotherly spar.
The office door cracked open, and Victor's bodyguard peeked in nervously.
Seeing the cuts on their faces and the mess in the room, the bodyguard looked confused.
They'd heard the fighting but didn't dare barge in.
After all, everyone in the Luca family knew these two brothers had been scrapping since they were kids.
Victor waved the bodyguard away and turned to pat Vitale on the shoulder, "Calm down, Vitale. I won't hurt your 'weakness.'"
He paused, his expression serious, "But I hope you always stay this sharp and strong. The family needs you, Vitale. I need you."
Vitale nodded, his blue eyes gleaming with determination in the moonlight, "I've always been strong, Victor. The men know it, and the women know it too."
He walked to the desk and picked up his phone.
The screen lit up with a photo of Isabella.
It was her smiling in a greenhouse, holding a rose.
Vitale quickly typed a message: [Got a sudden two-day trip to handle family business in Eldoria. Be good and wait for me to come back.]
Sent.
A few seconds later, a reply came: [Be careful. Remember to eat on time, and don't get your wounds wet.]
Vitale smiled and slipped the phone into his pocket.
Then he grabbed his coat and nodded to Victor, "Let's go."
The two walked out of the Tyson Group building side by side and got into the waiting black Bentley.
As the car headed toward the private airport, Vitale stared out at the city skyline flashing by, thinking of his father, Rhett.
The last formal meeting of the three mafia families had been a year ago, just three days after Rhett's death.
That meeting was supposed to be a mourning event, but it was really about carving up territory.
Everyone wanted a piece of the Luca family's pie.
At only twenty-two, Vitale had faced those greedy faces alone, using the wisdom Rhett taught him and the courage his mother, Thea, left him, to protect the family's foundation.
Since then, Vitale had started a long process of change.
He shut down all drug-related business, closed underground casinos, and slowly shifted the family's operations to legal fields.
Real estate, shipping, hotels, renewable energy.
Every step came with pushback from within and threats from outside.
"Your father would be proud of you." Victor said suddenly, as if reading Vitale's thoughts.
"No, he'd call me an idealistic fool," Vitale said with a light laugh, "He always said the world isn't black and white—it's a deep shade of gray."
"But he still left everything to you," Victor said, looking out the window, "because he knew only you had the guts to push that gray toward the light."
When the car reached the airport, the private jet was ready.
Before boarding, Vitale checked his phone one last time.
Isabella hadn't sent another message. His beauty must be asleep.
He sent a kiss emoji, then turned off his phone.
As the plane took off, the outline of Lumaria came into view in the morning light.
Vitale knew this trip wasn't just about Costa's betrayal—it was about facing resistance from the entire old order.
Those used to the dark wouldn't easily accept the light.
"Are you ready, Vitale?" Victor handed him a glass of red wine.
Vitale took the glass and looked out at the brightening skyline.
"For the light." he said softly.