His Vows

Chapter Two

LUCA DI CASTELLANO.

"Power isn't earned. It is remembered"

________________

Blood drips from the tip of my knife, pattering onto the marble floor like rain.

I squat in front of him, tilting my head.

"Did you think hiding my shipment was a clever idea?"

His lips move, but all that comes out is a whimper.

Pathetic.

I slide the knife under his chin, lifting his face so he's forced to meet my eyes.

"I told you. There's one law in my family, and it's loyalty. You failed me. And for that—"

I drive the blade between his ribs. Not a wild stab—precise, deliberate. A quick flick, in and out.

He gasps. Red blooms across his shirt. His body goes slack, slumping forward.

I rise, flicking blood from the blade.

Two of my men drag the body away. I wipe my hands on a white linen cloth.

"Clean this up," I say. "I don't want a single drop left."

——————

The night is cool and quiet along the Sicilian coast. Stars scatter the sky like shards of glass. The Mediterranean breeze carries salt and faint music from a fishing village miles away.

My driver opens the back door of the black Bentley as I approach.

Inside, the leather smells like new money and polish. Soft piano music filters through hidden speakers.

I sink into the seat and press my palm against my forehead for a moment.

No guilt.

No regret.

This is who I am.

Tall iron gates swing open as we approach. The driveway curves through manicured gardens: cypress trees, white roses, fountains catching the moonlight.

At the villa's entrance, staff wait in neat lines.

"Buona sera, Signore," they greet as I step out.

"Buona sera," I reply.

My shoes click across marble steps as I enter the foyer. The house smells of fresh lilies and expensive cologne.

A hundred tiny lights sparkle overhead in a custom Murano glass chandelier.

Silk drapes ripple slightly in the breeze through open terrace doors.

I shrug out of my suit jacket and hand it to Alessandro, my valet. He bows and vanishes silently down a hallway.

Power. Order. Silence.

That's how I rule.

It's nearly two in the morning when I climb the curved staircase to the master suite.

My bedroom is cavernous. Ivory walls. A bed big enough for three. Silver curtains shifting in the breeze.

Beyond glass doors lies a terrace overlooking the sea.

I step outside, letting the wind whip through my hair.

Lights twinkle far below. The village is quiet, sleeping.

My phone buzzes on the balcony table. A text from my cousin, Matteo:

"Shipment arrived safely in Naples. No more trouble."

Good.

I smirk before responding with a single word:

"Bene."

I set the phone down and lean against the railing.

I shed my shirt, stained faintly at the cuffs despite my efforts.

I pour myself a glass of Barolo. The ruby liquid catches the chandelier light like liquid fire.

I carry it to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below, waves crash against the cliffs.

From here, I can see the boats in the harbor: sleek yachts, fishing trawlers, ancient sailboats.

All of it is mine and want it.

The boats themselves. The ports. The cargo. The men who load and unload under my orders.

My empire stretches across shipping lanes, real estate, art auctions, casinos. Old money. Mafia money. Royal money.

The Castellano family has ruled in shadows for centuries. Kings and queens, politicians, popes — all have bent to us or bled for refusing.

My father taught me that loyalty is everything.

Sometimes, loyalty means removing the cancer before it spreads.

I sip my wine, the bitter tannins grounding me.

Tonight was necessary.

A message to anyone thinking they could skim from Castellano shipments.

In the bathroom

Marble gleams under soft gold lighting. Heated floors warm my bare feet.

A bathtub carved from a single block of Carrera marble waits, water steaming, scented faintly with bergamot.

I sink into the water, hissing as the heat bites into my skin.

Muscles uncoil.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting the silence wash over me.

⸻———-

Moments later, Alessandro's voice floats in from the doorway:

"Signore, shall I prepare your schedule for tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"You have a meeting with the architect regarding the villa renovations."

"The Indian designer?" I ask, eyes still closed.

"Sì, Signore. Ananya Kapoor. She arrives tomorrow to begin work."

I file away the name. Nothing more than a minor appointment on a crowded calendar.

"Very well. See that she's received properly."

"Of course, Signore."

___________

Some men inherit money. Others inherit legacy. I inherited both—and a burden I cannot share with anyone.

The Castellano dynasty is older than the Italian Republic. My ancestors were dukes, princes, cardinals. Mafia dons wearing silk gloves and Vatican rings.

My father commanded loyalty through fear. My mother ruled with elegance and poison smiles.

I learned early that love is weakness. Loyalty is currency. And the price of power is blood.

Our family motto is carved into the marble arch above the stairs:

"Fides, Potestas, Imperium."

Loyalty. Power. Rule.

When Alessandro leaves, I close my eyes again and let my head rest against the marble edge of the tub.

Steam coils around me, fragrant with bergamot and cedar. Outside, the sea beats against the cliffs in an endless rhythm.

Somewhere in the dark, men still whisper my name in fear.

But in this moment, I feel only the silence.

I am Luca di Castellano.

Son of a dynasty.

King of shadows.

And nothing happens in my world without my permission.

They think power is about voice. It's not.

Power is about silence. About the room falling still when you walk in,

not because you speak, but because you might.

____________

MORNING AFTER....

The air smells like espresso and rain.

I stand just outside the café, my back to the glass windows, phone pressed to my ear.

"No. Listen to me carefully," I say, voice low enough not to carry. "If we let the Russians push shipments through Naples unchecked, we look weak. And weakness is an invitation. I want the meeting rescheduled. Tomorrow. Make them wait."

I pause, eyes narrowed at the swirl of cars passing by.

"And tell Matteo to check the paperwork on the Catania ports again. I don't trust numbers that look too clean."

My contact mumbles something, nervous as always. I hang up without saying goodbye.

Business never sleeps. Not in my world.

⸻

I slip my phone into my pocket and draw in a breath, exhaling slowly as I run my hand across the back of my neck. My gaze drifts to my reflection in the darkened glass of the café window.

Sharp suit. Dark hair combed back. A watch worth more than the café's monthly rent.

I look like any rich man stepping outside to make a business call.

But my shadow runs deeper than any ledger.

⸻

I turn slightly, about to walk away — then stop.

Because there, inside the café, I catch sight of a woman from behind.

She's seated at a table near the window. A swirl of dark hair falling over her shoulders, half hiding the curve of her neck.

She's leaning over a sketchbook, pencil moving fast, completely absorbed. A few loose curls brush the back of her sweater.

People walk past her. Noise hums around her. Yet she seems untouched by it, like the eye of a storm.

Something about the way she tilts her head, the precise line of her spine, freezes me where I stand.

"Focus like that belongs to people who either build empires... or destroy them."

I can't see her face. Only the slope of her shoulders. The subtle movement of her wrist.

And inexplicably, my pulse ticks a notch faster.

⸻

A car horn blares behind me, snapping me back into the moment. I blink and glance away, irritation curling through me.

"This is ridiculous. She's a stranger."

But I look again.

Because the best predators know when to follow curiosity.

And sometimes... when not to.

⸻

My eyes linger on the dark spill of her hair. The delicate flex of her fingers as they race across the paper.

And for reasons I can't quite define, I decide to leave it that way.

At least... for tonight.

⸻

I exhale slowly and turn away from the glass.

A fine mist begins to fall, speckling the pavement. My shoes shine wet under the neon glow of passing traffic.

I walk toward the curb, where my car idles under the halo of a streetlamp.

Emilio, my driver, steps out and opens the back door without a word.

"Home, Signore?" he asks.

Casting one last glance over my shoulder at the café window.

She's still there. Completely absorbed in her sketchbook, oblivious to the storm waiting beyond the glass.

I wonder, briefly, what she's drawing.

"Home," I say finally.

"Sì, Signore."

____________

"The world doesn't fear monster like me. It obeys them. Because desire, for me, has only one outcome: possession."