BORN IN BLOOD

The first time Luca DeLuca saw a man die, he was eight years old. The basement of his childhood home smelled of damp concrete and old cigars, the air thick with something far worse fear. He sat on a wooden crate in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, his small hands clenched into fists. His father, Dante DeLuca, stood over a man tied to a chair, blood dripping from his swollen lips. “Watch, Luca.” His father’s voice was calm, almost patient. “This is what happens when someone betrays the family.” Luca wanted to look away. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend he wasn’t there, but he knew better. In their world, weakness wasn’t tolerated. Weakness got you killed. So he forced himself to watch as his father pressed the barrel of a gun to the man’s forehead. One second. One pull of the trigger. One body slumping forward, lifeless. Luca didn’t flinch. He didn’t cry. He only felt the warm spray of blood on his cheek—and the strange, hollow feeling in his chest. His father crouched beside him, wiping a smudge of red from Luca’s skin with his thumb. “You’ll understand one day,” Dante said. “In this life, we’re born in blood.” Years Later… The sound of heavy rain pounded against the windows of Luca’s penthouse, the city of New York sprawling beneath him in a mess of lights and shadows. He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glass as he stared at his reflection. The boy who once sat in that basement was long gone—all that remained was a man shaped by violence and power. His phone buzzed on the bar. Unknown Caller. He sighed and answered. “Talk.” “There’s a problem,” a voice rasped on the other end. “We found him.” Luca smirked, tossing back his drink. The hunt was over. “Good,” he said, his voice cold. “Kill him.” Because in his world, mercy wasn’t an option. Only blood.