CHAPTER 34: THE SHADOW THAT KEEPS LINGERING

Vincent leaned against the cold wall. It was damp and grimy, black mold crawling up its surface.

The air reeked of piss and rot, and somewhere in the dark, rats chattered, a sound that almost felt like laughter.

Laughter that mocked his arrogance, his stupidity. Laughter that told him this place suited him perfectly.

This underground cell was reserved for those who dared to defy the Lucero family.

The corridor outside was lit by a single, dying streetlamp, and the only light touching him now came from the pale, fractured moonlight seeping through a crack above.

But Vincent knew this place well. It wasn’t his first time here.

When they were young, the cruel sons of capos and other mafia brats used to shove him inside as a joke, leaving him to cry and tremble in the dark.

It was then that he learned his place in this family, he was nothing. No one. While Lucien stood in all his brilliance, adored and untouchable.

He had screamed for help, cried until his throat burned. No one heard him. No one cared.

Except Lucien.

He still remembered that moment, Lucien’s small hand hesitantly reaching out toward him, that soft frown on his delicate face.

His stepbrother had never liked him, never treated him kindly before, and yet in that freezing house, Lucien had been the only warmth.

But the memory shattered as Salvatore’s voice echoed in his mind:

"It’s because Lucien is better than you."

Vincent’s hands clenched, veins rising on his forearms before he slammed his fist into the wall.

Pain shot through his knuckles, warm blood trickling from the split skin, but he didn’t care.

That single sentence—that one cruel truth—had drowned every trace of shame in rage.

"I’ve been trying to prove myself all this time!" he shouted hoarsely, hitting the wall again.

"That I’m part of the De Luca too!"

The next strike hurt more, the ache blooming deep in his bones, but his fury burned hotter—hotter than the wounds in his heart, hotter than the blood on his hands.

When the man finally told him the truth—that Lucien was an omega—something in Vincent snapped.

Everything comes into place. His mother’s words came back to him like a promise that had been stolen: she had told him he would be the next Don, that the seat was his.

But she died with Cesare in a car crash. There was no grand funeral like the old Dons got; his mother was forgotten in a corner.

Her service had been held in a small church, with only him in attendance.

The fury inside him turned feral. Knowing Lucien—the omega who, by all rights, should have been beneath him—was praised, while he, an alpha who had tried and bled for his place, remained Lucien’s shadow, was maddening.

"Just a little more! Just a little and I could take his place!" he whispered to himself, a clawing hope that had long since curdled into pain.

And yet here he was, rotting among the rats.

Thankfully, Vincent had been sharp enough to arrange a spy: the echo of boots down the corridor, a warning and a promise.

He smirked and grabbed the bars, calling out, "I’m here!"

The figure who stepped up wasn’t his spy. When the man removed his black mask, Vincent recognized him at once.

"You... from Dominus," he said.

The man was massive, bigger than Mikhail, a mountain of a man who could have crushed him without effort.

The name hung in the air like a threat: Giant North.

"Are you here after me... or to save me?" Vincent asked, eyes burning.

He was ready to fight, even to die.

"Shut your mouth and come with me," the Giant snapped.

With flawless movements, he opened the lock and swung the bars apart as if they were nothing, soldier’s work, done in one clean motion.

But Vincent did not intend to follow obediently. Instead, he demanded as he pushed past, "Give me a gun."

The Giant scoffed. "You think a gun will let you beat me?"

"Who knows?" Vincent answered, voice calm and hard. "Even the Almighty Basilisk would die if a bullet found its head."

He had grown used to ridicule; insults rolled off him now. What lingered was the taste of powerlessness: an old, bitter tang that never quite left.

The Giant grinned and tossed him a pistol. "Don’t gamble your luck."

They stepped out of the underground cell together, but the moment the corridor opened, Vincent turned and sprinted the other way: fast, desperate, furious.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" the Giant roared after him.

Vincent’s feet pounded the passage as he ran. "I’ll kill Salvatore! Don’t you dare get in my way!"

The Giant’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. "You crazy bastard! Come back here!"

As Vincent turned the corner, he spotted Lucero’s men on patrol. Without hesitation, he raised his gun and fired.

One shot after another, precise and merciless, each bullet struck clean through the skull.

Victor froze for a moment, watching in disbelief. According to the reports, Vincent was supposed to be weak, fragile, even.

But the man in front of him now was anything but.

’Was he hiding his true strength all along?’

Victor wondered as he sprinted past the fallen bodies, the smell of gunpowder heavy in the air.

He extended his arm and finally caught up to the reckless fool, grabbing a fistful of Vincent’s shirt and yanking him down.

Vincent hit the damp ground with a painful thud, groaning as Victor planted a heavy boot on his chest, not hard enough to crush him, but enough to remind him who was in control.

"You little alpha," Victor snarled, leaning in close.

"Don’t you dare run from me like a rat. The only reason there isn’t a bullet in your skull right now is because my boss told me not to."

Vincent gritted his teeth and grabbed at the man’s leg, trying to shove him off. "Fuck you! I just want my honor back!"

He pounded against Victor’s boot, but the man didn’t even flinch.

"There’s no honor among rats!" Victor barked, his voice echoing through the tunnel.

"Not from creatures who live off scraps and crawl for mercy! Especially not from one who stabbed his master in the back!"

"You—" Vincent started, fury lighting his face.

But the words died as the sound of slow, deliberate clapping echoed through the corridor.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Both men turned.

Salvatore was walking toward them, his polished shoes clicking against the stone floor.

The faint smile on his face carried the weight of amusement and cruelty.

"Well," he drawled, spreading his arms slightly. "What a grand surprise."