Chapter 53

Chapter 53

LUCA'S POV

THE DRIVE FELT LIKE FOREVER.

“We’re almost there, boss…” one of my men said, his voice low but laced with adrenaline, as he pointed toward a rusted metal sign jutting out from the roadside, half-hidden by a wild overgrowth of weeds.

I didn’t respond. My eyes flicked briefly to the sign, its bold, fading letters confirmed what I already knew. Then I returned my gaze to the road, my jaw tightening as my fingers gripped the wheel with a renewed intensity.

We approached a sharp bend. I turned the wheel without hesitation, tires scraping slightly as we veered off the main road and drove straight down the narrow path that led to Sandro’s base, a cold, industrial-looking factory that sat cloaked in a mix of darkness and secrecy.

The engines snarled as the convoy came to a slow, powerful halt right outside the factory. Dust rose into the air, curling in the wake of our arrival like we’d dragged the devil himself behind us.

“Well…” I muttered under my breath, swinging the door open. My boots hit the gravel as I stepped out, the weight of what was to come settling on my shoulders like a mantle I was born to carry. I adjusted my suit with slow, deliberate movements, exuding calm... but inside, I was burning.

The doors of the other SUVs flung open one after the other, echoing like thunderclaps. In seconds, my men were out and surrounding me, disciplined, alert, weapons strapped, and eyes sharp. No one said a word. They didn’t have to.

With every step I took toward the factory doors, the heavy silence grew thicker. Several of Sandro’s guards lined the entrance, eyes tracking my every movement, hands twitching near their belts. But none of them dared speak. None of them moved. They knew exactly who I was. They knew what name I carried.

And they knew I wasn't here for diplomacy.

“Where’s your boss?” I asked coldly, stepping up face-to-face with one of Sandro’s guards. He was tall and stocky, but I could see the fear in his eyes. He hadn't been expecting this kind of confrontation….not tonight.

“He… he isn’t here…” he stammered, eyes darting back and forth like he was searching for backup, or maybe an escape route.

I heard him just fine. But I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice to a low, deadly growl. “What did you say…?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silence.

I turned to the man standing directly beside me. He was one of my sharpest soldiers, always alert, always ready.

“He thinks we’re here for jokes,” I said with a dark chuckle, letting a slow, sinister grin stretch across my face.

My man let out a rough laugh and, in one smooth motion, lifted the side of his jacket to flash his gun. Just a warning. Just a whisper of what could happen next.

“Don’t make me ask again,” I said to the trembling guard. “Take me to him.”

My voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was laced with power, with a promise of death if disrespected.

“He…” the guard began again, but this time his words were cut short by a slow, steady clap echoing through the hollow space behind him. Footsteps clicked against the factory floor with a deliberate, theatrical rhythm.

“Luca… Moretti…” Sandro’s voice called out, smooth as venom, mockery dripping from every syllable.

The bastard finally showed himself.

He emerged from the shadows like a villain from a noir film, his smirk infuriating, his demeanor infuriatingly calm. Behind him, his men started filing in from different angles, surrounding him like a pack of loyal dogs. All armed. All ready.

“Well,” he continued, stopping a few feet away from me. “To what do I owe this… dramatic visit?”

I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I just stared into his eyes like I was already counting the seconds to bury him.

“I ain’t here to fuck around,” I said, each word slow and heavy. “I’ve got questions. And I need good answers.”

“Questions?” Sandro raised a brow and let out a soft laugh, turning his head slightly. “Oh wow, looks like I’ve got an interviewer in my factory tonight…”

His men laughed, loud, fake, forced. The kind of laugh that only comes when a man knows he’s standing on dangerous ground and is trying to puff himself up to survive it.

I let out a low chuckle of my own, my fingers flexing once at my side.

“I’ll show you what an interview looks like…” I whispered under my breath, loud enough for him to hear.

Then I stepped forward, eyes burning holes into his skull.

“Did you steal… my gold?” I asked, my voice sharp and dangerous.

“Did you or did you not?” I repeated, louder now. My stare was unblinking, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

Truthfully, the gold wasn’t the real reason I was here. This was bigger than some stolen stash. This was about boundaries. About respect. And Sandro? He’d been getting a little too bold lately. Flying too close to my skies. I was here to remind him of the altitude he was allowed to fly at.

“I’m not a thief,” Sandro finally said, his smirk fading. “Your gold isn’t here.”

Good. I wanted him serious now.

I narrowed my eyes. “I’ve got another question.”

The air shifted around us.

“One of my men was killed tonight… at a bar.” I paused, watching him. “Why?”

There was a moment of quiet. The kind of pause where decisions are made. Where lives are decided.

“What do you mean why?” Sandro said eventually, blinking. “And why am I even in this conversation?”

That was it.

His words weren’t just careless, they were disrespectful. A blatant dismissal of a death that meant something to me.

My fury ignited in an instant.

I didn’t wait. My hands shot to my sides, and I drew out the red-gold shotguns in one smooth motion. A legacy, a threat, and a promise that I wasn't joking.

Sandro’s men instantly reacted, weapons drawn in a flash, their safeties clicking off like a chorus of war. My men followed suit, just as swift, just as ruthless.

We were seconds away from the carnage.

I didn’t blink.

“I don’t want to repeat myself,” I said again, this time slower, deeper.

“Why…?”