"Interesting that you mention Scalese," Luca said calmly. He moved then, crossing the room. "You just recruited the underground guard?"
"Yes?" Marco answered, uncertainty flickering.
"I need to know," Luca continued, "what part of his training entails bringing uncleared guests into my office." One corner of his mouth lifted. A smile, if you didn't know him. A death sentence, if you did.
"None, Luca."
"Good." Luca turned slightly, gesturing to the desk. "Your pizza arrived." He paused, then added casually, "And kill the fool."
Marco nodded once and turned to leave.
Luca returned to his desk, settling back into his chair. The smell of Nonni's food finally hit him properly then.
Nonnina sighed heavily as she placed the plate in front of him. She knew better than to interfere in mafia business. She always had. But knowing didn't stop wishing.
She looked at the man who filled rooms with fear. And she saw the boy she had rocked to sleep.
This wasn't the life she had wanted for him.
But it was the life carved into his bones.
Every firstborn Genovese was raised for one purpose. To dominate. To become legend.
To be the Mafia God.
"Eat," she said softly.
Luca smirked faintly, picking up his fork. "See? That's soft love."
She shook her head, lips twitching. "Stupid boy."
As he ate, her gaze lingered on him with quiet worry—because somewhere between blood, power, and his dark desires, she feared he was still starving for the one thing the mafia couldn't give him. Soft love.
*****
Marco and Luca arrived at the Scalese home the next morning unannounced. He enjoyed the way surprise unsettled people, how it stripped away rehearsed confidence and left only fear. Predictability was a courtesy he rarely extended.
Instead of summoning Vito Scalese to Commissioned, Luca had decided to go to him. To invade his space. His sanctuary. His illusions of safety.
Months ago, Vito had come crawling to him. To the devil. To ask for a favour.
Heritage Slice, he'd said, was stealing customers. New ovens, better prices, louder marketing. Luca remembered leaning back in his chair, bored, half-listening.
It wasn't a favour Luca usually granted. But boredom was dangerous, and at the time, Luca had been deeply, viciously bored. So he'd taken care of the problem. And now, like all deals with the devil, the bill had come due.
Marco pushed the door open. Luca stepped through without breaking stride. He scanned the space once and moved straight to the living room couch and sat, crossing one ankle over the other, settling in.
Marco disappeared down the hallway.
Moments later, Vito was dragged into the room half-naked, breathless, humiliated, his protests muffled by panic and the grip Marco had on him.
"Luciano!" Vito gasped, scrambling awkwardly as Marco released him to the floor. "You should have told me you were coming. I would have prepared for you."
Luca's gaze dragged lazily over Vito, assessing, unimpressed.
"Prepared how?" Luca asked mildly, his gaze dragging over Vito's exposed skin. "By putting on clothes?" He flicked two fingers in Marco's direction. "Get him a towel or something. No one wants to see that."
Marco disappeared immediately, boots thudding down the hall, and returned moments later with a towel, tossing it at Vito.
Vito scrambled to wrap himself, cheeks burning, dignity in tatters. Luca watched the entire process with bored detachment. When Vito finally stilled, clutching the towel to his chest, Luca leaned back.
"So," Luca said. "What's your proposition?"
Vito swallowed hard. "Well… the pizza shop has not been doing well."
"That's not my problem, Vito. You didn't ask me to improve your clientele. You asked me for something else entirely."
"Yes, yes, of course." Vito nodded too fast, sweat beading at his temples. "I didn't mean to imply—what I mean to say is…" He hesitated. "I do not have the money to pay you."
"You didn't do your research properly on me, did you?" he said softly. "I don't accept money in exchange for my favours."
"Oh—uh—my daughter." He rushed to the cabinet, hands shaking as he grabbed a framed photograph and turned back, thrusting it forward. "Beautiful. Most beautiful girl around. You can have her."
"You want me to take a fuck as payment," Luca said. "I have lots of women at my beck and call. Dante is quite useful with an endless supply of cunts. I have no use for her."
He dropped the photograph to the floor, letting it land face-down.
"But what you do have," he continued quietly, "is a debt. And debts to me don't disappear just because you ran out of imagination."
"Luciano, listen to me," Vito pleaded. He stepped forward, hands clasped. "She is beautiful. Young. Imagine her on your arm as your wife. You will be the envy of every mafia lord."
"I'm married, Vito," Luca cut in smoothly. "To the most beautiful woman in Italy. Stop your grovelling and hear my own proposition."
Vito nodded quickly and fell silent, spine bent, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Your pizza parlour," Luca continued, "sits on a very busy strip. And I just learned yesterday that you do deliveries. I'm going to be in charge of recruiting your delivery team. They'll deliver your pizza…" A pause. "…and my other business."
Luca didn't need to say more.
Vito's head snapped up. Fear overtook decorum. "Luciano, impossible," he said quickly. "If I agree to this, I am a dead man." His hands shook now. "Inferi runs my block. He approached me already. But my daughter manages the shop—she refused. If I drop for you, and Inferi hears of it…" He dragged a finger across his throat.
"Who would you prefer to kill you, Vito?" he asked softly. "Me or Inferi?"
Vito dropped to his knees with a sharp breath. "Luciano, I beg you," he cried. "Listen to me! Valentina—"
"Stop."
"She is untouched," he blurted. "Eighteen and a virgin—"
Marco moved closer to Luca. He leaned in just enough for his words to brush Luca's ear, a murmur meant for him alone.