The Red Devils
TWO MONTHS LATER…
The red glow of the neon sign ‘Inferno Royale’ pulsed like a heartbeat over the front entrance—each flash a warning and a welcome.
Inside, the casino buzzed like a hive. Golden chandeliers sparkled above velvet-lined poker tables. Slot machines chimed in rhythm with the bass-heavy lounge music, while servers in seductive red dresses weaved between private rooms and high-roller tables. Smoke curled in the air, the scent of cigars, perfume, and money saturating every breath.
Adriano sat in the VIP lounge, perched like a king over his kingdom. A lowball glass of whiskey swirled in his hand. Diamond was curled into his side, her legs draped across his lap, wearing a deep crimson dress that glittered under the lights. She whispered something in his ear and he chuckled, a sharp contrast to the chaos he’d clawed through to get here.
This… all of this… belonged to him now.
The casino.
The nightclubs.
The private gambling dens.
The exotic entertainment houses.
The Strip Club they’d launch tomorrow night—funded, down to every drop of champagne, from the pockets of the one and only Senator Whitmore L. Grayson.
Adriano didn’t just survive. He’d fucking resurrected.
Around him stood his core—Luca, Marco, Serena—each with drinks in hand, leaning back, eyes scanning the crowd. Behind the velvet ropes were new faces—dealmakers, underworld players, V.I.P.s seduced by Inferno Royale’s deadly charm.
“Not bad for a guy who had everything stolen from him,” Luca muttered, a half-smile curling under his lip. “You really know how to bounce back, boss.”
“Look at this fuckin’ place,” Marco muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Two months ago, we were practically buried. And now? Now we’re standing on a gold mine.”
“Correction,” Luca said with a half-smirk. “He’s standing on a gold mine. We’re just lucky we didn’t jump ship when the vultures came circling.”
Adriano lifted his glass lazily. “Loyalty pays, huh?”
“Loyalty and a good fuckin’ plan,” Serena added.
Adriano’s jaw flexed, but his gaze was soft when it fell on her. “I didn’t do it alone.” He looked around at them, his chosen family. “I couldn't have done this without you guys. My devils.”
He leaned in and pressed a kiss against Diamond’s temple. “And you too, babe.”
Angela smiled coyly, red lips glistening. “Damn right.”
They all laughed at that.
“And what's up with the new crew name.” Marco snorted. “What are we now? Supervillains?”
Adriano turned to him, dead serious. “We’re devils in a city of saints and hypocrites. The King Cobras were loyal to the name of a family that spat in my face. This—” he gestured to the crowded floor below, the high-rollers, the girls in red silk, the shadows doing deals in private rooms “—this is all mine. The Red Devils.”
Serena raised an eyebrow. “It suits you. Bold. Rebellious. Blasphemous.” Her lips twitched in the faintest smirk. “But it also comes with hellfire.”
Adriano smiled coldly. “Then let it burn.”
Later, he rose with Diamond on his arm and walked through the inner circle of V.I.P. guests. He greeted arms dealers, cartel liaisons, and crooked politicians, smiling for every handshake. He introduced Diamond as his muse, his good-luck charm. Her laugh was like champagne fizz—light and intoxicating.
“Gentlemen,” Adriano announced to a trio of foreign investors, “this is Diamond. You see my empire? She’s the fire that kept me warm while the world tried to bury me cold.”
—
The mood couldn’t have been more opposite.
Alessandro Greco stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, glass of untouched scotch in one hand, his other gripping the edge of his desk so tightly the wood groaned beneath his fingers.
$45 million last quarter.
$19 million this month.
That was the number on the report sprawled across his desk. It stared back at him like a death sentence.
“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath. “What the hell is happening?”
He didn’t need an answer. He already knew. The whispers had been getting louder—about Inferno Royale, about The Red Devils, about Adriano.
Adriano, whose businesses had been stolen out from under him, who was supposed to fail, was now flourishing like a goddamn virus.
Alessandro's phone rang. He checked the screen for the caller ID then picked it up.
“Yes, Papà.”
“You disappoint me, Alessandro,” the Don said, his voice cold as ice. “Your brother was reckless, yes. But at least he made money. What’s your excuse?”
Alessandro’s lips curled in frustration. “We’re adjusting. There were some setbacks but—”
“I don’t want excuses. I want numbers. You’ve lost us more than half of our returns in a single month. That is not the kind of leadership I expect from my firstborn. Now get your ass up and make yourself useful. Fix this!”
The line clicked and just like that the Don was gone.
Alessandro slammed the phone into the table, teeth clenched in anger. He tossed the scotch glass across the room. It shattered, amber liquid streaking across the white walls like blood.
“Sir…” One of his men entered, hesitant. “We just got word. The reason for the drop? Our patrons and V.I.P Clients have been flocking to Adriano’s new joints. Nightclubs, casinos, gambling dens… word is, he’s opening a new one tomorrow night.”
Alessandro turned slowly, deadly calm.
“What’s the name of the place?” he asked. “The new one he’s opening tomorrow night.”
The man licked his lips. “They’re calling it… House of Lust.”
A pause.
Then Alessandro smiled. But it wasn’t pleasant.
“So that’s what he’s been up to, huh?” His voice was low, murderous. “Then I guess it’s about time I paid my baby brother a visit.”