The morning started as most did in the De Luca estate—quiet, calculated, and utterly pristine. Salvatore sat at the breakfast table in the solarium, the sunlight warming the marble floors and casting soft reflections from the crystal decanter of freshly squeezed orange juice. Across from him, Isabella sipped her tea, her gaze distant as if lost in thought.
"Will you visit the church today?" she asked softly, breaking the silence.
Salvatore paused, his fork hovering over his plate. "Perhaps," he said after a moment. "I have business to attend to first."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, a gesture that did not go unnoticed.
"You disapprove," he stated, not unkindly.
"I don't disapprove," she replied carefully, placing her cup down. "I just worry. You're... restless lately."
Salvatore leaned back in his chair, studying her. "Restlessness is the nature of our life, Isabella. You know this."
"Yes, but I know you too. Something is different."
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted to the garden beyond the glass walls, the flowers Isabella had cultivated blooming in wild, vibrant colors. "Restlessness," he murmured, almost to himself.
By mid-afternoon, Salvatore was seated in the library, a towering room filled with leather-bound volumes and the faint smell of parchment and wood polish. Marco entered quietly, carrying a folder under his arm.
"News?" Salvatore asked, without looking up.
"Yes, sir," Marco replied, handing him the file.
Salvatore flipped it open, his sharp eyes scanning the pages. Marco stood silently, waiting.
"Luciano," Salvatore said at last, his tone flat.
"Yes," Marco confirmed. "Another shipment intercepted. Small, but it's the principle of it."
"And the Grecos?"
"Still silent, but they've been meeting with outsiders—new players. Could be allies. Could be threats."
Salvatore closed the folder and set it aside. "They're circling like vultures, Marco. Waiting for the moment I misstep."
"They underestimate you."
"They always have," Salvatore said with a smirk, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's their mistake."
Later, Salvatore ventured into the chapel located on the estate grounds. It was a modest structure compared to the grandeur of the rest of the property, but it held a quiet significance.
He lit a single candle, the flame flickering softly as he stood before the altar.
"I've given everything for this," he murmured, his voice low. "For this family, for this empire. But at what cost?"
His thoughts wandered to the moments he rarely allowed himself to linger on. The sacrifices, the betrayals, the blood spilled to secure his throne. Yet, in those rare, vulnerable moments, he found himself haunted by what he hadn't achieved—an heir of his own blood.
He clenched his fists, the weight of legacy pressing down on him once more. Marco might be loyal, but he wasn't blood. And blood was everything in this world.
That evening, Salvatore dined alone. Isabella had excused herself, citing a headache, and the quiet only deepened the isolation he felt.
As he sipped his wine, he allowed himself to reflect—not on his enemies or his plans but on the life he had built and the life he could have had.
The thought lingered as the night deepened, and for the first time in years, Salvatore felt the faint stirrings of regret. But like all emotions, he quickly buried it, locking it away where no one, not even Isabella, could reach.
The king of kings could not afford weakness—not now, not ever.