CHAPTER 18- RUMORS OF THE EXECUTIONER
1538 Words
Rumors did not spread in Alessandro Moretti's empire the way they spread in ordinary places.
Here, whispers were not entertainment.
They were warning signals.
They moved through kitchens and corridors, through smoky back rooms and elegant ballrooms, carried on lowered voices and careful glances. They were the currency of survival—because knowing what others feared could keep you alive.
Serafina had always listened.
It was how she endured.
But lately, the whispers had begun to circle around one name more than any other.
Luca Romano.
The Executioner.
The shadow behind the throne.
The man, they said, was more dangerous than Alessandro himself.
At first, Serafina dismissed it as exaggeration. People always feared what was silent. Alessandro was loud in his cruelty; Luca was disciplined. Discipline made people imagine depths they couldn’t measure.
But rumors were rarely born from nothing.
They were born from patterns.
And Luca was a pattern no one could ignore.
It began one morning with something small.
Serafina sat in the breakfast room, stirring her tea without drinking. The mansion was quiet, the kind of quiet that meant tension simmered somewhere unseen.
Two maids entered, whispering as they laid out fresh linens. They did not notice Serafina at first; she had become part of the room’s backdrop.
One of them spoke softly, voice trembling.
“They say it was Luca.”
The other froze.
“Don’t say his name so loud.”
“It wasn’t loud,” the first insisted, glancing around. “But I swear, he—he did it himself.”
“Did what?”
The maid hesitated, then whispered like prayer.
“The docks. The boy who tried to run. They say Luca didn’t even raise his voice. Just… ended it.”
The second maid crossed herself quickly.
Serafina’s fingers tightened around her spoon.
“What boy?” the other asked.
“A runner. Barely twenty. Thought he could steal and vanish. They say Alessandro never even heard about it.”
The second maid’s eyes widened.
“He didn’t have to,” she whispered. “Luca handles those things before they become problems.”
Serafina’s stomach twisted.
The first maid nodded quickly.
“That’s what scares me. Alessandro kills because he wants to be feared. Luca kills because he wants things clean.”
Silence fell between them.
Then the second maid murmured, “That’s worse.”
They left soon after, unaware Serafina had heard every word.
Serafina sat still, tea cooling in her cup.
That’s worse.
She understood what they meant.
Alessandro’s brutality was emotional. His violence was personal. You could predict it by his moods, by his ego, by his need for dominance.
Luca’s violence was something else entirely.
It wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t indulgence.
It was maintenance.
As though death were merely another task on a ledger.
The thought unsettled her deeply.
Later that week, Alessandro hosted a gathering of captains and allied bosses. The atmosphere was heavier than usual. New tensions pressed against old borders.
Serafina stood near the edge of the main hall, dressed in dark silk, her face composed.
Men spoke in murmurs, their laughter restrained. Power was nervous tonight.
She noticed something unusual:
They were watching Luca more than Alessandro.
Alessandro sat at the center of the room, confident, charismatic in his cold way. But even as men addressed him, their eyes flickered toward Luca instinctively, as though seeking something beyond Alessandro’s words.
Luca stood slightly behind, silent.
The Executioner.
One captain—an older man with deep scars along his jaw—leaned toward another and spoke low enough that only someone listening closely would catch it.
“If the Don orders war, we fight.”
The other man nodded grimly.
“And if Luca orders it?”
The first man’s mouth tightened.
“Then we don’t survive.”
Serafina’s breath caught.
A chill crawled up her spine.
They feared Luca more.
Not because Luca held higher rank.
Because Luca held inevitability.
That night, Serafina overheard another whisper.
Two bodyguards stood near the courtyard entrance, speaking quietly over cigarettes.
“You hear about Palermo?” one asked.
The other’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t tell me that was Luca too.”
The first guard exhaled smoke slowly.
“It was always Luca.”
“What happened?”
The guard hesitated.
“They say Palermo begged Alessandro for mercy. Said he’d pay double, said it was a mistake.”
“And?”
“And Alessandro was considering it.”
The second guard stared.
“Considering mercy?”
The first nodded.
“Then Luca walked in. Didn’t argue. Didn’t shout. Just said, ‘Mercy makes men careless.’”
The second swallowed.
“And Palermo?”
The first guard’s voice dropped.
“Dead before sunrise.”
Silence.
The second guard muttered, almost to himself, “More dangerous than the Don.”
Serafina retreated before they noticed her.
Her heart was pounding.
Alessandro was feared because he was king.
Luca was feared because he was law.
She began to understand the empire’s hierarchy more clearly.
Alessandro ruled with spectacle.
Luca ruled with precision.
Spectacle drew attention.
Precision ended things quietly.
Rumors grew heavier.
Women at galas whispered behind champagne glasses.
“He never smiles.”
“They say he doesn’t sleep.”
“They say he once sat with a man for an hour, letting him talk himself into confession before cutting his throat.”
“Is that true?”
“It doesn’t matter. It feels true.”
Men in suits avoided Luca’s gaze as though eye contact might be mistaken for challenge.
Even Alessandro’s allies seemed careful around him.
Serafina watched Luca move through these spaces untouched by gossip.
He never responded.
He never defended himself.
He simply existed, and the rumors shaped themselves around him like fog around a mountain.
One evening, Alessandro hosted a private dinner with only a few trusted captains. Serafina was seated beside him, as always.
A young commander—new, eager, foolish—spoke too boldly after too much wine.
“I don’t understand why everyone fears Luca so much,” the lieutenant said, laughing slightly. “He’s just a man.”
The table went still.
Alessandro’s eyes glittered with amusement.
Luca did not move.
The commander continued, oblivious.
“I mean, yes, he’s effective, but—”
A captain kicked him under the table.
The commander startled.
“What?”
No one answered.
Then Luca spoke.
Quietly.
“You’re new.”
The commander flushed.
“Yes.”
Luca tilted his head.
“That’s why you’re alive.”
Silence.
The commander’s smile died.
He swallowed.
“I didn’t mean disrespect—”
Luca’s gaze held him, unblinking.
“Disrespect is irrelevant,” Luca said softly. “Carelessness is fatal.”
The commander nodded frantically, drained of arrogance.
Alessandro laughed, breaking the tension.
“You see?” he said pleasantly. “Luca educates my men better than I ever could.”
Serafina felt sick.
Because it was true.
Alessandro’s violence was punishment.
Luca’s violence was instruction.
After dinner, Serafina wandered toward the corridor, needing air.
She found herself in the shadowed hallway near the study.
Luca’s footsteps sounded behind her, silent but present.
She stopped.
So did he.
A familiar distance.
The unspoken rule.
Serafina’s voice was soft.
“They fear you.”
Luca’s gaze did not shift.
“Fear is useful.”
“They fear you more than they fear him.”
That made Luca pause.
Only a fraction.
Then he said, “He is the Don.”
“And you?”
Silence stretched.
Then Luca answered quietly, almost cold.
“I am what keeps him the Don.”
The words landed like stone.
Serafina’s throat tightened.
She turned slightly, just enough to look at him.
His face was calm.
But calm, she understood now, was not the absence of violence.
It was its containment.
Serafina whispered, “Does it bother you? Being… this.”
Luca’s eyes flickered—something deep, unreadable.
“Bother?” he repeated softly.
Then, almost imperceptibly, his mouth tightened.
“People don’t whisper because they want truth. They whisper because they want somewhere to put their fear.”
Serafina held his gaze.
“And where do you put yours?”
For a moment, Luca was very still.
Then he said, voice low, controlled—
“I don’t.”
The answer sent a chill through her.
Because it meant he carried everything.
Every threat.
Every death.
Every consequence.
And he never released it.
Rumors called him Executioner.
The empire called him shadow.
Alessandro called him loyalty.
But Serafina, standing in the quiet corridor, felt something darker forming beneath all those names.
Luca Romano was not dangerous because he was cruel.
He was dangerous because he was necessary.
Because he could end lives with the same calm he used to pour whiskey.
Because he could dismantle kingdoms without raising his voice.
Because even Alessandro Moretti’s empire—built on brutality and fear—
rested on the spine of a man everyone whispered about.
And Serafina could not stop wondering—
what happens when the Executioner decides the throne itself deserves to fall?
The thought was terrifying.
And yet…
In the darkest part of her mind, where forbidden possibilities lived…
it was also the first thought that felt like freedom.
- Writer
