The scent of smoke and leather curled through the air, rich with the bite of aged whiskey. Outside, the DeLuca estate loomed over the city like a silent predator, its black-tinted windows catching the flicker of distant lightning. A storm was rolling in, thick and electric.
Inside, behind the heavy mahogany doors of its most guarded office, war was already brewing.
Adrian DeLuca sat at the heart of it.
Still. Unmoving.
The dim glow of the city outlined him in sharp relief, shadows stretching long across his obsidian desk. The polished surface bore the weight of carefully controlled chaos—confidential files, an untouched cigar, and a sleek black pistol lying beside a half-finished glass of scotch.
The amber liquid reflected the cold fire in his storm-gray eyes, but Adrian wasn't drinking to unwind.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he was plotting retribution.
His fingers curled around the glass, rolling it slowly between them, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. A deceptively relaxed motion. But beneath the surface, there was no calm. Just the hum of something lethal, waiting.
The Ivanovs had taken what was his.
Again.
And this time, there would be consequences.
The door creaked open, breaking the heavy silence.
Adrian didn't look up.
He didn't need to.
Only one man could enter unannounced and still be standing five seconds later.
Nikolai Petrov.
The Russian moved like a man accustomed to shadows, stepping inside with an unhurried ease. Dressed in a fitted black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean muscle and old scars, he exuded quiet danger. A silver chain glinted at his throat—just barely visible. Like the deadly glint in his dark blue eyes.
Without a word, he tossed a folder onto the desk. It landed with a soft thud, but the weight of it was heavier than paper and ink.
"They got it," Nikolai said, voice cool but edged with irritation.
Adrian's fingers paused against the glass.
Not a flinch. Not a shift in his expression.
Stillness was his weapon, just as much as any gun or blade.
He reached for the file, flipping it open with the slow, measured patience of a man who already knew what he would find.
The Morelli Estate.
Locked in. Should be secured under the weight of the DeLuca name. It should have been untouchable.
And yet.
The documents bore the Ivanov seal.
A cold, methodical acquisition. Seamless. Silent.
His.
Now, theirs.
A slow exhale left his lips, though it did nothing to cool the quiet fury settling in his chest. His jaw tightened—a barely perceptible shift, but Nikolai caught it.
Adrian's gaze flicked up. "Who closed the deal?"
Nikolai leaned against the desk, fingers trailing along the edge. "No one knows for sure. Morelli didn't exactly throw a party when he signed it over."
Adrian's gaze darkened. "Meaning?"
"Meaning he didn't walk away from it."
A smirk curled at the corner of Nikolai's mouth, sharp and knowing.
"Morelli's dead."
The words lingered in the air.
Adrian barely reacted.
If anything, he looked bored.
"Dead." He leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the armrest. "How?"
"Slaughtered in his own penthouse. His guards, too."
That made Adrian pause.
The Ivanovs were brutal, yes—but rarely messy. A massacre like this wasn't about closing a deal.
It was a statement.
A message.
Nikolai crossed his arms. "It wasn't Dmitri."
Adrian lifted a brow.
Interesting.
Dmitri Ivanov was the king of quiet, bloodless business deals. If he wanted something, he took it with a pen, not a gun.
But if this hadn't been Dmitri…
"Who, then?"
Nikolai tilted his head, considering. "He's been in Moscow all week. And their usual enforcers weren't involved either. Whoever handled this… wasn't one of their regulars."
Adrian tapped his fingers against the desk, thoughtful.
A new player in the game?
No. Unlikely.
This had the Ivanovs' signature all over it—clean execution, complete radio silence. But the fact that he didn't know who had pulled the trigger?
That pissed him off more than the deal itself.
He closed the folder with a sharp snap. His anger was quiet, suffocating—twisting beneath the surface, unseen but ever-present.
"Find out who handled this," he ordered. "I want names."
Nikolai smirked. "Already on it."
Adrian exhaled slowly through his nose. Nothing calm about it.
This was an act of war.
The Ivanovs and DeLucas had been locked in a blood-soaked chess match for years, each move calculated, each strike deliberate.
The DeLucas ruled the East—an empire built on brutality and unshakable control.
But the Ivanovs?
They were a different kind of monster.
Old Russian blood. Cold and relentless. Carving their way into DeLuca territory with surgical precision.
And now, they had taken something that should have been his.
This was no longer about real estate.
This was personal.
Adrian stood, rolling up his sleeves, revealing the tattoos,drawings portraying power and control.
He reached for the bottle of scotch, pouring another drink with measured patience. The ice clinked softly against the glass.
Nikolai tilted his head. "What's the move?"
Adrian lifted the drink to his lips, taking a slow sip. Letting the burn settle in his throat. Letting the weight of this insult sink in.
"We don't strike yet."
Nikolai's brow arched. "Really? You're going to let them walk away with this?"
Adrian smirked, but it was devoid of warmth.
Cold. Calculated. Deadly.
"No." He turned, looking out over the city, his reflection a shadow against the glass.
"I'm going to let them think they won."
Nikolai exhaled sharply, almost a laugh.
"You're going to make them comfortable."
Adrian's smirk deepened. "Exactly."
Comfort made people stupid. It made them sloppy. And when the Ivanovs finally thought they had secured their victory—when they were too drunk on their own success to see it coming—
He would take everything.
Because this wasn't about revenge.
It was about legacy.
And Adrian DeLuca did not lose.
Not to the Ivanovs.
Not to anyone.
The storm outside cracked against the sky, thunder rolling in deep, shuddering waves.
Fitting.
Because war was coming.
And this time, he wouldn't stop at retribution.
He would end them.