Matteo
The room reeked of smoke, sweat, and steel—just the way I liked it. Beneath the estate, deep in the old vaults carved before the first war, the Black Fang council gathered. The stone walls had been retrofitted with high-end tech, but the bones of the room remained ancient, primal. A reminder of what we were before the money, the bikes, the blood-stained suits.
I sat at the head of the obsidian table, leather cut draped over my chair like a crown I never asked for. My men flanked me—Ezra Vale to my right, calm and deadly as ever, knuckles tattooed with words that had drawn blood more times than I could count. Lucio Garza stood to the left, flipping through a digital report on his sleek black tablet, his slicked-back hair and thousand-dollar watch a sharp contrast to Ezra’s raw brut
