The villa stood on the highest hill of the city.
White marble walls. Glass windows stretching from floor to ceiling. A private road guarded by men who never smiled. Below, the city glittered small, helpless, already owned.
Inside, everything spoke of wealth without excess. Dark wood floors. Leather furniture. A chandelier that cast soft golden light instead of harsh brightness. Silence lived here, thick and confident.
He sat on the wide leather sofa in the center of the living hall.
One leg crossed over the other.
A bathrobe loosely resting over his shoulders.
Dark trousers. Bare feet against cold marble.
Comfortable. Untouchable.
A girl sat on his lap, laughing softly as she held a glass of wine to his lips. She was beautiful carefully chosen beauty but her eyes never reached his importance. She was decoration. Nothing more.
He took a slow sip.
Not because he needed the drink.
Because he enjoyed control.
His hand rested lazily on the arm of the sofa, fingers drumming once, twice
bored rhythm.
Then
Knock. Knock.
The sound cut through the calm.
The girl froze.
He didn't.
"Enter," he said.
The door opened. One of his men stepped inside, head slightly bowed.
"Boss," the man said. "Aria DeLuca killed our three man."
He smiled slightly.
He lifted two fingers slightly.
"Cigarette," he said, without looking at her.
The girl on his lap moved instantly. She stood, crossed the room in silence, and returned with a slim cigarette between her fingers and a lighter cupped in her palm.
She leaned in.
The flame flickered.
He took the cigarette, brought it to his lips, and inhaled once slow, unhurried. Smoke curled into the air, thin and lazy, drifting toward the high ceiling.
"Enough," he said quietly.
She stepped back at once, lowering her eyes. No questions. No delay.
He exhaled, gaze fixed on the city beyond the glass walls.
That was how things worked here.
And for the first time that night, interest sharpened into intent.
He smiled faintly.
Not surprised.
Not angry.
Interested.
"Aria DeLuca…" he repeated, tasting the name like a familiar challenge. "So the queen finally moved."
He lifted his hand slightly.
The girl understood immediately. She stood, fixed her dress, and left without a word. No protest. No delay.
The door closed again.
Now only power remained in the room.
He leaned back into the sofa, eyes turning toward the city outside the glass walls.
"Did she find out it was us?" he asked.
"Not yet," his man replied. "But she's searching."
He chuckled softly.
Low. Dangerous.
"Good," he said. "Let her search."
He stood now, robe falling open slightly as he walked toward the window. No rush. No tension. Only dominance.
"Set up a meeting," he said.
"I want to see the famous Aria DeLuca in person."
The man nodded and left.
He stayed by the window, watching the city that both of them claimed to own.
Two empires.
One city.
And a war that would begin with a meeting.
On the other side:
The room was dark.
Not because the lights were off
but because power didn't need brightness.
Aria DeLuca sat in her chair.
Not a sofa.
Not a couch.
A power chair high-backed, black leather, cold steel edges. It faced a wall of screens glowing faintly with maps, numbers, surveillance feeds. The city breathed on those screens.
And she controlled its pulse.
She sat perfectly still. One leg crossed over the other. Elbow resting lightly on the armrest. Fingers relaxed but ready. Her black coat lay open now, revealing the sharp structure beneath. Calm. Unshaken.
A man stood a few steps away.
Her man.
Trusted. Loyal. Careful with every word.
"Report," she said.
Her voice wasn't loud.
It never was.
"Yes, boss," he replied, opening the file in his hand. "The fire was not an accident. It was planned. Professional. Clean execution."
She didn't look at him.
Her eyes stayed on the screen showing the burned-out shell of her banker's office.
"Who?" she asked.
"That's the problem," he said carefully. "The order didn't come directly. The money trail was layered offshore accounts, dummy transfers. Whoever did this didn't want to be seen."
Her jaw tightened—just a fraction.
"They touched my finances," she said quietly.
"They killed my banker."
"They wanted my attention."
Her man nodded. "Yes. And they succeeded."
He hesitated, then continued. "We traced the pattern. The method. The silence after the hit."
She finally turned her head.
Slowly.
"And?" she said.
"There's only one empire that moves like this," he answered. "One that knows your routes. Your timings. Your blind spots."
She leaned back into the chair.
The leather creaked softly.
"Say the name," she ordered.
"Luca Moretti," he said.
The name settled into the room.
Heavy. Familiar. Old.
Aria exhaled slowly through her nose.
So it was him.
The ghost of the other side of the city. The man who ruled territory the way she ruled systems. The man whose empire had clashed with her father's long before she ever sat on this chair.
"They burned my banker," she said calmly, "to see if I'd scream."
She looked back at the screens.
"I didn't."
Her fingers tapped once against the armrest.
"Instead, I erased their middlemen," she continued. "And burned the place they thought was safe."
Her man nodded. "Your response was… noted."
A pause.
Then Aria asked the most dangerous question of all
"Why now?"
Silence.
"That's what I want to know," she said. "Men like Luca Moretti don't make noise unless they're bored… or ready for war."
She stood.
The room straightened with her.
"Did he send a message?" she asked.
"Yes," her man said. "Indirect. He's requesting a meeting. Neutral ground."
Aria smiled.
Not warmth.
Not humor.
Recognition.
"So," she said softly, "he finally wants to look me in the eyes."
She reached for her coat and slid it on, movements smooth, practiced.
"Accept," she ordered. "But make one thing clear."
Her man waited.
"I don't come to negotiate," Aria DeLuca said, eyes cold, focused.
"I come to decide who survives."
She walked past him, heels echoing once, twice.
Behind her, the screens showed two empires glowing on the same city map.
For the first time in years
They were about to collide.