Chapter 105 - MATTEO’S CORONATION
The coronation did not require applause.
It required fear.
The De Luca stronghold had been stripped of its former elegance. The marble floors still gleamed, but the warmth was gone—no flowers, no music, no servants pretending this was anything other than what it was. Men arrived armed, alone, summoned with a single sentence sent through encrypted channels:
Attendance is not optional.
Matteo stood at the head of the long council table, hands resting lightly on the polished wood. He wore black, as if mourning—but there was nothing grieving in his posture. His stillness radiated intent. Around him, the remnants of the De Luca leadership gathered in fractured clusters: captains with bloodied reputations, lieutenants promoted too quickly by death, men who had survived not because they were strong but because they were useful.
The room smelled like gun oil and tension.
An empty chair sat at the head of the table.
Lorenzo’s chair.
Matteo let the silence stretch until it became unbearable.
“You’re all wondering why you’re still alive,” he said at last, voice calm, conversational. “That’s good. It means you’re listening.”
A few men shifted. No one spoke.
“The De Luca family has been decapitated,” Matteo continued. “Not by enemies. By weakness.”
He paced slowly, boots echoing against stone. “Lorenzo chose sentiment over survival. He chose a woman over blood. And in doing so, he invited the world to tear us apart.”
A murmur rippled through the room—anger, shame, agreement, fear.
Matteo stopped behind Lorenzo’s chair and rested a hand on its back.
“This seat no longer represents strength,” he said. “It represents failure.”
With a sharp motion, he shoved the chair backward. It toppled onto the marble with a violent crash that made several men flinch.
“That,” Matteo said coldly, “is over.”
He snapped his fingers.
Two guards dragged a man forward—bound, bruised, barely conscious. Blood streaked his temple, his mouth swollen from recent interrogation.
“Some of you recognize him,” Matteo said. “Alessandro Rizzi. Financial coordinator. Loyal to Lorenzo until the very end.”
Rizzi lifted his head weakly. His eyes darted around the room, desperate.
“He leaked internal structures to foreign agencies,” Matteo continued. “Under the illusion that transparency would save us.”
Matteo crouched in front of him, voice soft. “Tell them why you did it.”
Rizzi swallowed, voice shaking. “He said—he said it was the only way to end the cycle. That if the truth came out—”
The gunshot cracked through the chamber.
Rizzi collapsed in a heap, blood pooling beneath him.
No one screamed.
Matteo stood, slipping the gun back into his jacket as if returning a pen to his pocket.
“This is the cycle,” he said. “And it ends when someone strong enough takes control of it.”
He looked around the room, eyes sharp, predatory. “Lorenzo betrayed this family. But betrayal does not dissolve obligation. You are still De Lucas. And De Lucas do not scatter when wounded.”
One of the older captains cleared his throat. “You speak of strength. But you are not Lorenzo.”
Matteo smiled.
“No,” he said. “I’m better.”
The words landed like a slap.
“Lorenzo ruled with conscience,” Matteo continued. “I rule with clarity. The world does not reward morality. It rewards dominance.”
He gestured toward a screen mounted on the far wall. With a tap of his remote, footage began to play—news broadcasts, financial alerts, headlines screaming about investigations, asset freezes, raids.
“The damage is done,” Matteo said. “But it can be redirected.”
He turned back to them. “The Venturis smell blood. So do the Albani. So does every syndicate waiting for the De Lucas to die quietly.”
His gaze hardened. “We will not.”
Another captain spoke up, voice tight. “And the woman?”
Matteo’s smile sharpened.
“Isabella,” he said. “The architect of this collapse.”
A few men spat on the floor.
“She is alive,” Matteo continued. “And so is Lorenzo. For now.”
The room went still.
“They are hiding,” Matteo said. “Plotting. Pretending this is about justice.”
He leaned forward, palms on the table. “But justice is a fairy tale told by men who can’t finish wars.”
Straightening, Matteo raised his voice.
“I assume leadership of the De Luca family effective immediately.”
No vote. No ritual. No blessing.
Just possession.
“I declare open war.”
The words rang through the chamber like a bell tolling.
“War against the Venturis,” Matteo said. “Against any syndicate that challenges us. Against governments that dare reach into our affairs.”
“And against Lorenzo De Luca,” he finished. “If he lives, he is a symbol of weakness. If he dies, he becomes a warning.”
No one objected.
They couldn’t.
Matteo scanned the room one last time. “Those who stand with me will be rewarded with power. Those who hesitate will be removed.”
One by one, the men stood.
Not in loyalty.
In submission.
Miles away, in a safehouse that smelled of dust and cold coffee, Isabella felt it before Lorenzo said a word.
“He’s done it,” Lorenzo said quietly, phone still glowing in his hand.
She didn’t ask who.
“Matteo has the council,” he continued. “He executed Rizzi. Declared war.”
Isabella closed her eyes. A slow exhale. “Then there’s no turning back.”
Lorenzo stared at the wall, jaw clenched. “I handed him the crown.”
“No,” she said softly. “You exposed the rot. He just stepped into it.”
He turned to her, pain and fury warring in his expression. “He’ll come for you first.”
“I know,” Isabella said. “Because I’m the story he can’t control.”
Lorenzo crossed the room in two strides, gripping her arms. “This was supposed to end it.”
“It still can,” she said. “But not cleanly.”
He rested his forehead against hers, breath uneven. “My brother just declared war on the world.”
“And on us,” Isabella replied.
Outside, sirens wailed in the distance. Somewhere, a city braced itself for violence it didn’t yet understand.
Back in the De Luca stronghold, Matteo stood alone in the council chamber, staring at the fallen chair.
He nudged it aside with his boot.
“No more ghosts,” he murmured.
But even as he spoke the words, the empire around him creaked—old foundations groaning beneath the weight of blood, lies, and a war he had just made inevitable.
The coronation was complete.
The throne was his.
And everything was about to burn.