CHAPTER 29: NINE YEARS AGO: THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

Day by day, Lucien became busier, his time swallowed by the famiglia’s affairs.

Between the corporation’s dealings, endless negotiations, and the constant rebellion among his capos, there was no space left for anything else, not even his lovely Edmund.

He managed it all with blood or diplomacy, whichever solved the problem faster.

"You want the Similia Port?" Lucien asked, his voice calm as he looked across the desk.

Similia Port was the largest drug distribution hub under the Lucero name. It was the Don’s domain, untouchable by any capo.

Every shipment passed through its docks, and every profit line ran through its books. To ask for it was to challenge the throne itself.

The capo leaned back, his chair creaking as he set his boots on the table. "It’s not like you can manage it, Don. Look at the mess we’re in. The Vulture took over the south, Pepe Warehouse is gone, and you still—"

The gunshot cut him off.

The echo of it lingered in the air before the body fell to the carpet. Blood splattered across the papers and Lucien’s face.

His expression didn’t change. He stood, took the handkerchief Vincent handed him, and wiped the blood away with steady hands.

The door opened with a loud creak, and Damien entered, gun still drawn. "Lucien!" he shouted, scanning the room until his eyes found the corpse.

He lowered the gun with a sigh. "You could at least warn me before redecorating."

Lucien rubbed his temple. "You look worse than me."

Damien’s clothes were soaked with blood that wasn’t his. He gave a careless shrug as he holstered his gun.

"Handle it. The rats are gone."

Lucien returned to his chair. "And your side?"

"Most pledged loyalty to you," Damien replied. "The rest decided to run with the Scraps."

Lucien’s lips curved faintly.

The Scraps, that was what he called them. The rebels who refused to accept his rule. They were remnants from his father’s time, desperate men clinging to a dead legacy.

To Lucien, they were nothing more than stains on the Lucero name.

"Scraps belong where they came from," he said quietly, lighting a cigarette. "In the gutter."

"Are you planning to take Pepe Warehouse back?" Vincent asked.

"We don’t have the manpower, Lucien. Even the neutral ones won’t move for us. We need to build our fortress first and think this through."

He tried to reason with his stepbrother, but lately Lucien’s decisions had become too fast, too reckless. Vincent feared it would all collapse soon.

Lucien slammed his hand on the table, the sharp crack filling the room. Both Vincent and Damien tensed.

Their Don rarely lost control. He was the type to kill with a calm voice and an unreadable face, but now his jaw tightened, his teeth gritted in barely contained rage.

"Do you think it’s strange that I have to ask permission for what’s already mine?" His voice was low, colder than before.

"We’ll take it back. Send word to every capo to bring their men. And if they refuse, send their heads instead."

"Yes, Don," they answered in unison. Neither dared to argue.

Lucien’s mood had been black for days, ever since Lunox had not moving through everything that was happening. Pepe Warehouse was their largest facility in the south, sitting on the border between Lunox and Lucero territory.

It had always been neutral ground, a place where goods flowed between the two families. If the warehouse had been seized by the Vulture—the Scarps faction-–and they didn’t do anything, it was some sort of declaration.

What made it worse was the silence. Lucien had already sent a request to meet Randolph, and even a private message to Edmund. But there was nothing. No reply, no call. Just silence.

When the room emptied and the corpse had been carried away, Lucien sat alone. The night pressed heavily against the office windows as he looked at his phone.

The last message between him and Edmund glowed faintly on the screen, still unread.

"What went wrong?" he whispered to himself.

He replayed every memory: every glance, every conversation, every word Edmund had spoken. There was no sign of betrayal, no hint of deceit. Nothing.

And yet, Edmund was gone.

For the first time in years, Lucien felt powerless. Every problem in the Lucero famiglia could be solved with either his brain or his gun. But love, love was something he couldn’t control.

He hated himself for it. Hated that Edmund’s absence hurt more than any rebellion, any bullet, or even betrayal.

’Is this how it ends?’ he thought.

Maybe their fire had burned too fast and too bright. Maybe it wasn’t love after all, just another illusion.

However, the south wasn’t about love at all, he needed all the help available as he sent another message to Edmund asking for assistance. But as the message wasn’t even delivered to the other person yet, just tick one.

Lucien tightened his grip on the phone before locking it away in the drawer. Out of sight. Out of reach. Out of mind.

***

The day arrived. Lucien had given a simple ultimatum: every capo must send men or come in person. It was not an offer. When one man had refused and ended up dead for it, the rest fell into line. Fear moved faster than loyalty.

As long as the Hound controlled the armed wing, Lucien’s grip on power remained unshaken. He could make examples and collect obedience. Still, a few came on their own terms. Twilight and Velour had arrived by choice rather than command.

They crouched on a low rise with binoculars, watching the warehouse like hunters. Morning light sharpened the edges of crates and shipping containers, turning dust into gold.

Velour’s voice cut through the quiet. "Attack at dawn?" he asked.

"You should not be here, Velour," Lucien said, not taking his eyes off the scene. "Your men would have been enough."

Velour smiled, not offended. "And you should have stayed back. I have faith in the Hound."

Twilight stepped up beside them as if summoned by the mention of his name. He looked at Lucien without blinking.

"I will not hide," he said. "You want this to end, and so do I."

Lucien lifted the binoculars again, scanning the compound. The Scraps were not alone. Small mafia groups had joined them, hoping to carve a piece of Lucero’s territory for themselves.

If Lucien let this spread, the famiglia’s map would change and not in his favor.

"Preparations are ready," Vincent said quietly behind him.

Lucien lowered the binoculars and nodded. "As planned. The Hound and my men strike from the rear. Twilight takes the front. Velour, you cut off their escape routes and seal the planks. Do not let them get away."