Dominic
I wasn't summoned often. When I was, it meant something.
The black iron gates of Moretti Manor creaked open like a mouth preparing to devour. The guards nodded as I passed, their eyes avoiding mine. They knew better. Everyone in this life knew better than to look too long at someone like me.
I parked the matte-black car near the circular drive, killing the engine. The windows of the manor glared down like sentinels – polished, pristine, and soulless.
Inside, the air smelled like power. Old money and older blood.
I was led through the marble foyer by a silent soldier in a suit who didn't speak. Didn't need to. The house said everything. Heavy chandeliers. Framed oil portraits that watched you with dead eyes. Silence thicker than smoke. This place didn't need to scream its threat – it whispered it, slow and deliberate, until it curled around your spine and made you forget your own name.
We reached the study. The guard knocked once, then opened the door.
"Dominic Russo," he announced.
Don Salvatore Moretti didn't look up at first.
He sat behind a walnut desk the size of a coffin, swirling something amber in a glass the size of my palm. The light from the tall windows was calculated – just enough to cast his face in shadow, but not enough to make him look old.
He wasn't old. He was timeless.
That was the thing about Sal Moretti. You couldn't tell if he was fifty or seventy, because he carried the weight of a thousand sins like they were his skin. Sharp suit. Clean shave. Wedding ring that hadn't moved in three decades. Eyes like a snake – black, unreadable, waiting.
"Dominic," he finally said, not standing. "Come in."
I stepped inside. The door shut behind me.
"Sit."
I didn't. Not yet.
"You needed me?" I asked.
He smirked like I was amusing him. Like a dog who'd learned how to speak.
"I always need my best men. But today, I need your attention."
That made me pause. My spine straightened.
"I've never withheld it."
"You've never offered it freely, either," he replied, tilting his glass toward me. "That's the problem."
I said nothing. Let him talk.
He stood then, slow and deliberate, walking to the bookshelf like this was a social visit. Picked up a framed photo I'd never seen before – him, years ago, with men I recognized only by reputation. Ghosts of the old regime. Men who ruled with blades, not bank accounts.
"I've always had a strong eye for loyalty," he said, placing the frame back down. "You've served this family well, Dominic. Efficient. Quiet. Deadly."
He turned to face me. "But not... loyal."
My jaw tightened. "I take orders."
"Exactly. You take them. You don't belong to them. You've never planted roots here. You live like a man waiting for war but not building a home."
I still didn't sit.
"That's because this isn't my home."
He smiled again. Not like he was angry – like he was pleased.
"Not yet."
A pause settled between us like fog. My muscles coiled, ready to snap.
"I need more from you, Dominic," he said. "Not just blood. Not just bodies. I need someone who can inherit. Someone who won't flinch when this empire expands. You know what it means to kill, but do you know what it means to own?"
I stared at him. "I'm not interested in power."
He walked toward me, hands folded behind his back like some Catholic school priest ready to discipline.
"Then perhaps," he said softly, "you should start thinking about what will happen when the men around you are."
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the faint scar near his temple. Rumor was he earned it at seventeen, after carving out a man's eye with a spoon.
"I see the men lining up to fill the space I've carved," he said. "They come with teeth bared, alliances forged in dark corners. And yet… I watch you, and I see something clean. A man who hasn't tried to grab at more. Which makes you either the most dangerous of them all – or the most useful."
"I don't want your throne," I said.
He chuckled.
"I know. That's why I might trust you with it."
I narrowed my eyes.
"I didn't come here for riddles. You have sons."
"No, you came here for purpose." He turned away, back to his desk, and poured another inch of whiskey into his glass. "And I'm giving you one. Be here on Saturday. Dinner. Family."
I blinked. "Dinner? No can do."
His eyes glazed knowingly. "Every soldier serves. But only family dines."
There was something in the way he said family that made my blood chill. Like the word didn't mean what it meant to everyone else. To Don Moretti, it wasn't about blood – it was about control. Possession.
Which is why I stay out of dinners.
"You want me there to send a message," I said.
His eyes glinted. "Always perceptive."
"Which one?"
"That you are mine."
He sipped his drink like he hadn't just dropped a bomb.
I stared. I'd been part of this world for years. Done his work. Covered his sins. Kept my hands steady when others trembled.
But today?
Today was different.
"What are you planning?" I asked quietly.
He smiled. That same amused, unreadable smile. "Nothing you need to worry about."
And that was the moment I knew – I was already in it. Whatever "it" was.
He moved back to his seat, sat down, and picked up a manila envelope from the side of his desk.
"Saturday," he said, sliding the envelope toward me. "You sit at my table."
I took it, even though I didn't want to.
Inside would be the place card. A name in calligraphy. The beginning of something.
The beginning of his plan.
"Don't be late, Dominic," he added, voice like silk over steel. "You've been a ghost long enough. Let's see if you bleed."