Luciano Remus
He entered the old house on the outskirts of Rome without turning on the lights. The smell of dust, gun oil, and raw leather wrapped around him like armor. Only the creak of the floorboards under his heavy steps broke the silence.
His jacket was torn, his arms bloodied. But none of it was his.
Luciano tossed the car keys onto the table, breath ragged. His chest still echoed with the rhythm of the fight. He could feel the wolf in him slowly crawling back into the depths—exhausted, but far from tamed.
“Where the hell have you been?” Dario’s voice rose from the shadows. He leaned against the doorframe, cigarette between his teeth, eyes carrying their usual lazy wariness. “We were one step away from sounding the alarm.”
“They almost killed me. Six of them. Romula’s pack.” Lu
