Chapter 8 - THE KING’S RECKONINGThe club below them was still dancing, oblivious to the storm gathering on the mezzanine, but up in the VIP section, the air was so dense with terror that breathing felt like inhaling glass.
Three of Rossi’s bodyguards—men hired from private security firms who had never faced real underworld violence—instantly reached for their shoulder holsters.
Before their fingers could even graze the leather, Dante’s two enforcers moved with the terrifying speed of striking cobras. In less than three seconds, all three bodyguards were face-down on the plush carpet, their arms twisted behind their backs, their faces pressed into the velvet pile with iron precision. Not a single shot was fired.
Victor Rossi stood up so fast his chair crashed backward onto the floor, clattering loudly against the brass railing.
“You’re dead,” Rossi breathed, his face twitching, color draining completely from his skin. “Everyone said you were gone. You gave up the crown!”
“I didn't give it up, Victor,” Matteo said, taking a slow, measured step forward. His voice remained dangerously calm. “I put it in a drawer because I was tired of the blood. But you took my drawer. You broke my lock. And worst of all... you bothered my wife while she was pouring coffee.”
Rossi’s hand shook as he reached into his jacket, his fingers frantically wrapping around the grip of a pearl-handled pistol. “I run this city now! You’re just one man! Kill him!” he screamed down to the half-dozen armed soldiers standing near the bar downstairs.
None of them moved.
They weren't looking at Rossi. They were staring up at Matteo Marquez.
In the underworld, loyalty isn't bought with money; it is commanded by absolute, unquestionable survival. And looking up at the Black Lion standing on the mezzanine, every soldier in that room remembered who owned their mortgages, who protected their families, and who had built the empire they were currently standing inside.
Matteo didn't even look at the men downstairs. He kept his slate-gray eyes locked entirely on Victor Rossi.
“Drop the piece, Victor,” Matteo said softly.
“I’ll put a bullet through your skull!” Rossi shrieked, tears of pure panic springing to his eyes as he yanked the pistol free from his holster.
Before Rossi could level the barrel, Matteo flicked his wrist.
A small, heavy object flashed through the air with blinding speed—a silver pocket watch, spinning end over end like a coin toss in a hurricane.
Clang.
The heavy metal casing struck the base of Rossi’s thumb with bone-crushing force. The pistol slipped from his numb fingers, clattering uselessly against the floorboards and sliding away across the carpet.
Rossi clutched his broken hand to his chest, falling back against the velvet sofa, gasping for air like a drowning fish.
Matteo walked up to him, stood over him, and slowly reached down to pick up his pocket watch. He popped the case open, checked the time, and snapped it shut with that familiar, lethal click.
“It’s 11:45 p.m., Victor,” Matteo said, leaning down so his mouth was right beside Rossi’s ear. “You have fifteen minutes to pack a single bag, catch a flight to South America, and never, ever say my wife’s name again. Because if you ever set foot in this country—or even think about sending another letter—the next time I drop my watch, it won't be your hand I break.”
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Rossi didn't speak. He couldn't. He just curled into a ball on the floor, clutching his shattered hand, trembling violently.
Matteo turned around, walking back down the stairs without looking back once.
