POV: LUCIANO MORRETI


The world moved because I let it.

That thought echoed in my head as the armored black Escalade pulled up in front of the new Harlem warehouse. My men stood at attention like trained wolves. No words spoken. Just the silent command of my presence.

I stepped out, adjusting the cuff of my dark suit. Black-on-black. A Montblanc watch glinting under my sleeve. I didn’t wear color. I didn’t need to. Men like me bled in grayscale.

The moment my foot hit concrete, they parted like waves.

Two new recruits bowed their heads as I walked past them. I didn’t glance their way. I didn’t need to remember faces unless they proved themselves. Until then, they were bodies waiting to be discarded or shaped.

“Boss,” Sergei, my Russian distributor, approached me at the side entrance. His accent was always thick with vodka and violence. “The shipment from Istanbul came early. The inventory’s clean.”

“It better be,” I murmured. “Last time I found duplicates. I don’t pay for laziness.”

He swallowed.

I didn’t slow my stride as I moved into the warehouse—slick floors, floodlights overhead, stacked crates filled with death. This was where power breathed. Where fear lived. The real empire wasn’t built in marble. It was built in places like this. Underground. Wet with oil, sweat, and secrets.

One of my men approached with a tablet. “Luciano, Xavier haven't made a move since last night"


“He won't. He knows there are some lines he should cross”

“She’s under control?” I continued.

“Yes, sir. Hasn’t left the penthouse. Chef and bulter have been briefed.”

I nodded once. “If she steps out without my permission, tell them I will slit their throats.”

“Yes, Boss.”

I moved deeper into the facility. Crates were being opened. Guns. Pills. Blades. My kingdom. This was what I controlled. Not women. Not hearts. This.

My phone buzzed. One glance. A coded message from Rome. Another buyer. Another shipment. Another problem for lesser men.

I put the phone away.

Down the corridor, I found Hardin speaking to two lieutenants in low tones. He straightened as I approached, falling in step.

“Updates?” I asked without looking at him.

“The Russian rat has a girl. Her location is still a secret, but her movements are too smooth"

I paused mid-step. “Find her, if we have her, we have the freaking rat"

Hardin gave a single nod. “Understood.”

We walked in silence toward the weapons vault. I unlocked it with my fingerprint. Rows of imported arms gleamed under low blue lighting. I walked along them like a man inspecting his art collection.

“This one,” I said, picking up a custom matte Glock. “Deliver it to the Colombians with the next batch. It’ll make them feel special.”

Hardin noted it.

“After that, send a message to the Greeks. No more discounts. Anyone who can't pay the full price gets nothing.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Outside, I heard the low growl of engines. My guards changing shifts. Even now, no one raised their voice. Not in my presence. They knew better. The only sound that carried here was obedience.

I stopped in the center of the vault. My phone buzzed again. A surveillance image popped up. Daisy.

Standing on my balcony, staring at the city like she could unravel it with her thoughts. Her hair a mess. My silk robe slipping off one shoulder.

My jaw ticked. That woman…

She was the one threat I couldn’t file, organize, or extinguish. She slipped through the cracks of my control like smoke.

Hardin turned. “Something wrong?”

“No,” I said coldly, slipping the phone back in my pocket. “Handle the Turkish deal. If anyone delays, burn the truck and blame customs.”

“Got it.”

I walked back toward the main floor, every man turning slightly as I passed — not too much, just enough to show respect without groveling. That was how I liked them. Sharp, loyal, afraid.

That was the price of standing beside a king.

And I… I wasn’t just a king. I was the law.

And if Xavier thought he could take anything from me — Daisy, my empire, my control — then he’d have to choke on my crown first.

****************************

By noon, I was done bleeding power into the underground.

It was time to wear the other face—the clean one. The one the world applauded, shook hands with, and called respectable.

"Prep the car," I told Hardin.

He gave a short nod. “Where to?”

“Benton Construction.”

His brows twitched slightly. I didn’t explain myself. I didn’t need to. Benton Construction was more than a company. It was my wall of mirrors. My fortress of illusions.

****************

Ten minutes later, I was sliding into the back of the Escalade again, phone in hand, eyes on the city streets speeding by. The buildings rose like teeth, glass and steel catching the sun. New York was a kingdom of masks. And I wore mine better than most.

The company was located in Midtown. A modern steel-and-glass building, five floors, clean lines, tinted windows. Nothing flashy. Just respectable. It smelled like permits and expensive coffee.

The moment I stepped out of the car, two security guards straightened by the doors. “Good afternoon, Mr. Morreti.”

I didn’t respond.

I pushed through the glass doors. The receptionist—young, blonde, too curious—stood quickly. “Mr. Morreti, welcome. Mr. Clarke is waiting upstairs.”

“Send coffee up. Black. No sugar.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

The elevator opened silently. Inside, the mirror reflected my still face, my unreadable eyes. I adjusted the lapel of my coat, smoothing invisible wrinkles. I didn’t like disorder. Not in my clothes. Not in my people. Not in my empire.

The top floor opened into a sleek glass conference room. Clarke—my fake CEO—stood at the head of the table, flipping through reports with shaking hands

“Luciano,” he greeted with that same overly eager smile. “Everything’s running smoothly. I’ve got last quarter’s numbers, and the new zoning permit came through for the Bronx site—”

“I don’t need chatter. I need results.”

He swallowed and slid the reports across the table.

I sat.

The room fell into dead silence as I scanned the sheets. Profits from the last three sites. Real estate investments filtered through dummy corporations. Cleaned money pumped through payroll and equipment invoices. Enough to fool the government. Enough to sleep soundly—if I ever did.

“The Benson Project is moving too slow,” I said without looking up.

“We’re short-staffed. Union restrictions—”

“Not my problem,” I cut in coldly. “Speed it up. Or I’ll hire from overseas and gut your entire office.”

Clarke paled. “Understood.”

I leaned back in the chair, tapping the edge of the folder. “How’s the press?”

“We paid off the Daily Ledger. They’re running a profile on Benton’s commitment to ‘urban renewal’ next month. You’ll be quoted.”

I gave a ghost of a smile. “Make sure the photo is good. I like to look human.”

He laughed nervously. I didn’t.

I stood, collecting the folder, and turned toward the wide window overlooking the skyline. A reflection stared back at me: sharp suit, sharper eyes. No soul.

Good.

I pulled out my phone and opened the surveillance app. Daisy was still in the penthouse. Still in that silk robe. Still pacing like a lioness locked in a golden cage.

The thought stirred something in me.

Annoyance. Curiosity. Heat.

I put the phone away.

“Keep the site clean,” I told Clarke on my way to the door. “No leaks. No questions. Anyone snooping gets buried under concrete—literally.”

“Yes, Mr. Morreti.”

I walked out of the office, each step echoing on the marble floor. I didn’t belong in this world of fake smiles and permits—but I controlled it anyway.

That’s the trick to surviving in both worlds: never lose your venom.

Even when you wear a suit.

******************************


POV: DAISY MONROE

I was pacing like a lunatic.

Up the marble stairs. Down again. Across the glass balcony. Back to the living room. I was wearing a black silk robe now, the one the housekeeper left neatly folded on the bed like I was royalty. My hair was tied up in a messy bun. I hadn’t bothered with makeup. I didn’t feel pretty—I felt caged.

And I was going insane. Where the hell was he? Luciano hadn't returned since morning. Not a single call. Not a message. Nothing. And they expected me to just sit here, like some obedient pet, waiting for my master?

I walked over to the giant glass window. City lights blinked below. The world was moving. Buzzing. Living.

And I was stuck in this penthouse like a damn prisoner.

I reached for my phone. Still no new messages.

Instead, there was a call coming in.

Mum

I groaned and answered it.

“Daisy,” her voice came sharp and strained through the line. “You didn’t call me back yesterday.”

“I was busy, Ma.”

“Busy doing what?"

I pressed my lips together. “What do you want?”

There was a pause. Then came the real reason. “My friends planned on shopping today and I would love to join them. My account is empty and—”

“I’ll send it.”

Silence.

Then, “God will bless you. I knew you’d understand. Also, my hair is—”

“I said I’ll send it.”

I ended the call and sat down at the glass table, opening the bank app. With a few taps, I sent two hundred thousand dollars. Maybe it would buy peace for a few weeks. Maybe not. Either way, I didn’t care.

I was starting to feel somethingdangerous—bitterness. A knock on the door broke my thoughts.

The Butler stepped in, wearing a beige uniform and a careful smile. “Miss Monroe. Dinner is served. Mr. Morreti said to make sure you ate well.”

I looked at the tray she carried—salmon, grilled vegetables, fine china, silver cutlery. I stared at it blankly. Then shook my head.

“Take it away,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”

Her smile faded. “Miss—”

“I said take it away.”

The woman bowed slightly and left, tray in hand.

I stood again, walking over to the massive fireplace, crossing my arms. The silence in this penthouse was suffocating. Too still. Too silent. No music. No voices. Just my thoughts chasing themselves in circles.

Why didn’t he sleep here last night? Why did he bring me here just to lock me away?

Why the hell couldn’t I stop thinking about him? I hated how much space Luciano Morreti was taking up in my head. He made me feel small and monstrous all at once. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass window, breathing in slow.

I wasn’t a pet. I wasn’t a doll. I wasn’t his.

And if he thought I’d keep obeying his rules, then he didn’t know who the hell he brought into his life.

************************


(LUCIANO’S POV)

The new warehouse still smelled like concrete and machine oil — fresh, dangerous, unfinished. My office was at the top floor, stripped-down but secure, a one-way glass pane facing the factory floor below. No luxury here. Just the cold hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of crates being moved.

I sat behind a steel desk, jacket off, shirt rolled to the elbows. One monitor blinked with shipment logs. The other? Daisy.

The penthouse camera showed her pacing. Barefoot. In one of my shirts. She had refused dinner. She hadn’t touched the water. Her face was tight with agitation. I leaned back in my chair, eyes fixed on the screen, elbows spread, fingers steepled beneath my jaw.

“She’s restless,” I muttered. “Of course she is.”

She paused by the balcony doors, staring out at the city lights. Then her phone lit up. A call. Her mother. I saw her lips move — tight, annoyed. Then the sigh. Then she wired money. Again.

My jaw twitched. The camera followed her as she shut her phone and crossed the room. Food was brought in. She didn’t even glance at it.

I reached to the side drawer, pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a crystal tumbler, poured. She dropped on the couch and threw her head back. Her lips moved, maybe cursing me. Maybe not. I smirked.

“You’ll survive, baby girl.”

My eyes didn’t move from the monitor as I leaned back, took a slow sip, and set the glass down.

The warehouse creaked around me. Distant engines hummed. Men moved crates. Guns. Chemicals. Power. I turned off the shipment log, leaving only her screen glowing in the dark.

I wasn’t going home tonight. Not because I didn’t sleep beside anyo

ne like I told Daisy but because I want her to Want me.

I want her to miss me. I couldn’t stop watching her.

(TO BE CONTINUED....)