Rose of Blood and Cage

The De Luca mansion reeked of wealth and old blood. Marble floors gleamed beneath golden chandeliers, walls lined with oil paintings of ancestors who had once ruled these streets. But tonight the house felt like a mausoleum, waiting to cradle another body. At the far end of the dining hall sat Don Antonio De Luca, head of one of the most feared families in Italy. His suit was crisp, his cigar half-burned, his posture deceptively relaxed. Around him stood armed guards, all wearing the smug expression of men who believed no one would dare breach these walls. Then the doors slammed open. Matteo Romano entered without invitation, his black suit sharp as a blade, his eyes colder than the marble underfoot. He moved with lethal precision, every step echoing in the vast hall. Behind him came Luca Bianchi, his consigliere, shadowing him like a wolf. The Romano soldiers fanned out, weapons drawn, shoving De Luca guards against the walls before they even had a chance to react. Antonio’s lips curved into a smirk. “Matteo Romano,” he drawled, his voice carrying years of arrogance and control. “I wondered how long it would take before you crawled into my home like a rat.” “Crawled?” Matteo’s voice was a growl, low but sharp enough to slice through the tension in the air. He didn’t sit, didn’t even glance at the seat offered to him. He remained standing, towering over Antonio, radiating fury. “I came to collect a debt.” At the edge of the room, Maria De Luca froze. She had been standing quietly, a silent ornament at her father’s side as was expected of a mafia princess. But nothing about tonight was ceremonial. Fear coiled in her stomach as her gaze locked on Matteo Romano. His reputation was legend; cold, ruthless, the King of the Romano family. But legends didn’t prepare her for the reality of his presence. Maria’s eyes darted between him and her father. Antonio remained seated, puffing his cigar, exhaling smoke like he was bored. “A debt?” Antonio chuckled, shaking his head. “You sound like a banker, not a Don. What could my family possibly owe yours?” Matteo’s jaw tightened. His hands, steady as stone, reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a pistol, the polished black steel glinting under the chandelier light. “My parents,” Matteo said, his voice clipped, his rage boiling just beneath the surface. “Their lives. Their blood. You took them from me. And tonight, I take payment.” Maria gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. She stepped forward instinctively, her hands outstretched as if her desperation alone could shield her father. “No...no, you can’t!” “Silence.” Matteo’s single word lashed out like a whip. His dark gaze locked on Maria, pinning her in place. For a split second, he saw more than a frightened daughter—he saw softness, purity in her trembling eyes. But it only fueled his wrath. This was the blood of his enemy. The daughter of the man who had ordered his parents slaughtered. Antonio leaned back in his chair, utterly unfazed by the pistol aimed at his head. He smirked, ash falling from his cigar. “Your parents were weak, Romano. Your father wanted peace, to share power like a fool. He thought the world could be built on trust. That’s why he died. He was never meant to wear the crown.” The words struck Matteo like a blade twisting in an old wound. Rage burned through him, hot and merciless. He stepped closer, pressing the muzzle of the gun against Antonio’s temple. Maria’s cry filled the hall. “Please! Don’t, please, if you kill him there will be no end to this bloodshed! It will destroy both families!” Matteo didn’t blink. His eyes narrowed on Antonio, who met his glare with infuriating calm. “Go on,” Antonio sneered. “Do it. Show everyone that you’re nothing more than a boy pretending to be king. You’ll never have the strength your father lacked.” That was it. The gun roared. The shot cracked like thunder, echoing off the marble walls. Antonio’s body jolted, the cigar slipping from his fingers as he collapsed backward. His blood spilled across the pristine white tablecloth, staining it crimson. For a moment, silence consumed the room. Then Maria’s scream shattered it. “Papa!” She dropped to her knees, skidding across the polished floor to cradle his body. Her hands, delicate and trembling, pressed against the wound in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. But it was pointless. Blood poured through her fingers, warm and slick, coating her palms in death. Her sobs tore through the hall, raw and broken. “Please, no, Papa, don’t leave me! Stay with me!” Her voice cracked as she buried her face against his chest, her dress soaking in his blood. The smell of gunpowder and iron filled her lungs until she could hardly breathe. Matteo watched her crumble. The sight should have stirred something in him; guilt, pity, maybe even compassion. But all he felt was grim satisfaction. Justice, long overdue, had been served. Luca shifted beside him. “It’s done, Matteo. Let’s leave before the others arrive.” But Matteo’s gaze had fixed on Maria. Her small frame shook with grief, her tear-streaked face turned upward to glare at him through eyes burning with hate and despair. He stepped forward, his shadow falling over her as she clung to her father’s body. “No,” he said quietly, his voice laced with finality. “This isn’t finished.” Maria’s breath caught. “What—what do you mean?” Matteo holstered his pistol, then reached down, seizing her arm in a bruising grip. He yanked her up, ignoring her frantic struggles. “You’re coming with me,” he growled. “Your father’s life was the price of betrayal. Yours will be the reminder.” Maria shook her head violently, tears streaming down her cheeks. “No! Please, don’t do this! Kill me here, let me die with him!” Matteo’s jaw clenched. “Death would be mercy. And mercy is for the weak.” She screamed as he dragged her away, her voice echoing down the corridor, each cry carrying the agony of a daughter torn from her father’s bloodstained corpse. Behind them, Antonio’s body lay cooling on the marble floor, eyes glassy, cigar smoke still curling into the air like a ghost. The empire of the De Lucas had lost its king. And in his place, Il Re had claimed his first trophy.