BLOOD AND BETRAYAL

Prologue

The rain beat against the town car like a drum, relentless and heavy, blurring the city lights outside. Inside, Victor Moretti sat in the back seat, his hands resting on his thighs, the leather of his coat creaking beneath him. The man who had once been the golden boy of the Mafia sat still, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife.

Victor wasn’t a stranger to power. He’d inherited his father’s sharp jawline, his dark eyes that missed nothing, and his commanding presence, but his frame was lean—muscular, but not the hulking strength that most of the Mafia men wore like armor. His dark, wavy hair was swept back, a little too long, giving him the look of someone who tried to avoid the attention that his last name inevitably drew. His attire was simple—black leather jacket, dark jeans, boots—clothes that belonged to a man who wanted to blend in, but couldn’t.

The phone beside him buzzed once. Twice. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for it. The message was clear. His father was dead.

Don Matteo Moretti, the powerful, feared patriarch of the Moretti crime family, had been murdered. The assassin’s identity remained a mystery, but the message was unmistakable: betrayal had been carried out, and the empire was up for grabs.

Victor had spent years running from the bloodshed of the underworld. He’d built a life far from the violence, a life that didn’t carry the stench of power and corruption. He’d distanced himself from his father’s world and everything it represented. But as the car slowed to a stop, its tires crunching on the gravel, Victor felt the weight of his father’s legacy settle on his shoulders. It was a burden that would never fully be shed.

The gates of the Moretti estate loomed ahead, their black iron creaking open. The mansion stood, as imposing and cold as it always had, but tonight, it felt like a tomb. Victor’s heart pounded in his chest, and despite the chill in the air, sweat beaded on his forehead. He had never wanted this life. Never wanted the power, the violence, or the loyalty that came with it.

But now, there was no turning back.

Victor stepped out of the car, the cold bite of the night air cutting through his jacket, his breath visible in the misty air. His boots hit the gravel with a firm step, the soft echo of his stride a reminder that every path he’d tried to walk had led him back to this moment. Back to the darkness of his family’s name.

Enzo Ricci, his father’s right-hand man, stood by the mansion’s entrance. His face was a mask of indifference, but his posture was rigid, taut, betraying a nervousness that Victor could feel in the pit of his stomach.

“The family needs you, Victor,” Enzo’s voice was cold, clipped. But there was reverence in it, too—a recognition of the power that Victor now wielded, whether he liked it or not.

Victor stood for a moment, studying Enzo, before his gaze shifted to the mansion, the weight of history pressing down on him. He had once vowed to walk away from all of this. But now, with his father’s blood spilled on the cold stone floors of the Moretti estate, Victor knew there was only one thing left to do.

With a long, measured breath, Victor took a step forward, the gates closing behind him with a hollow thud. The door to his father’s empire had been shut for good. And now, with his name carved into the legacy, it was Victor who would open it again.