CHAPTER 96: THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN

The next morning, dawn broke pale and heavy over the DeLuca estate. The city still smelled of smoke, remnants of the fire that had devoured the docks. The television channels buzzed with speculation about the "warehouse explosion" that claimed several lives, but no one dared to say the DeLuca name aloud. In their world, silence was a form of respect... or fear.

Aria stood by the balcony, her silk robe clinging to her like a second skin. Below her, the courtyard was crowded with men in black suits, their movements hushed and rigid. Matteo’s death had sent ripples through the underworld. Some mourned him as a fallen prince; others whispered that Luca had crossed a line that no brother should. Either way, a storm was coming.

Behind her, Luca sat in the armchair, head bowed, a tumbler of whiskey untouched in his hand. He hadn’t spoken much since last night. His eyes were swollen from sleeplessness, and there was a hollow weight to his presence, like the life had been wrung out of him.

"Did you sleep at all?" Aria asked softly.

He didn’t look up. "No."

She crossed the room and knelt in front of him, gently taking the glass from his hand. "You can’t drown this, Luca. You’ll only burn for it."

His eyes finally met hers, red, haunted, searching. "You think I haven’t already burned?" he rasped. "I shot my own brother, Aria. Whatever’s left of me is just smoke."

Aria’s chest tightened. She reached up, cupping his jaw with both hands. "You didn’t kill Matteo. His choices did. The man who stood before you last night wasn’t your brother anymore. He was lost long before you pulled that trigger."

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her, as if trying to find truth in her eyes. She saw the pain there, the boy who’d once sworn to protect his younger brother, the man who’d built an empire on loyalty, now forced to bury the last piece of his past.

A knock at the door broke the fragile silence. Nico entered, his expression grim. "Don, the council is gathering. The old families are demanding an explanation. Some are calling for a trial... others for revenge."

Luca rose slowly, his entire demeanor shifting. In one breath, he transformed from grieving brother to cold, calculating Don. The duality of him never ceased to amaze Aria, how he could command fear even when breaking apart inside.

"I’ll give them neither," he said. "No one questions how I protect my family. Matteo made his choice."

"Still," Nico hesitated, glancing at Aria. "They’re saying his death left a power vacuum. Some of his allies have already started moving money and men. There’s talk that the Romano remnants might be joining forces with the Russians."

Aria’s stomach tightened. "That means war."

Luca’s gaze flicked to her, sharp, unreadable. "No," he said after a moment. "It means I need to remind them who sits on the throne."

When Nico left, Aria placed a hand on Luca’s arm. "If you go there like this, angry, raw, they’ll see it. They’ll use it against you."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "What would you have me do, mia regina?"

"Lead with fire," she whispered, "but not with rage. They expect a broken man. Show them a king."

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. "Sometimes I think you were born for this world."

Aria smiled faintly. "Maybe I was. I just didn’t know it until you dragged me into it."

He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, a silent promise. "Then walk beside me. If they see you at my side, they’ll understand what we are. Not just power, but legacy."

That afternoon, the DeLuca council chamber buzzed with uneasy energy. Men from rival families sat around the long mahogany table, their faces shadowed by suspicion and greed. Aria walked in first, dressed in black, the color of mourning and authority. Her heels echoed against the marble floor, each step calculated, deliberate.

Luca followed, his presence commanding instant silence.

"Gentlemen," he said coldly, taking his seat at the head of the table. "I trust you’ve all heard the rumors. Allow me to confirm them. Matteo DeLuca is dead. He betrayed his family, our code, and everything our name stood for."

The air thickened. A few men shifted uncomfortably. Others leaned forward, hungry for weakness.

One older capo, Vito Mancini, sneered. "And you expect us to believe you had no choice but to kill your own blood? How convenient that your brother dies, and your power grows."

Luca’s gaze turned to steel. "You mistake grief for ambition, Vito. Matteo chose to side with enemies of this family. He aligned himself with the Romanos and tried to destroy everything we built. I gave him mercy once. He answered with betrayal."

Aria spoke then, her voice smooth but sharp as glass. "You all know what happens to traitors in our world. The only difference is this one shared his last name."

The men murmured, glancing at one another. Luca’s eyes flicked toward her, a silent acknowledgment of her control over the room.

Vito still wasn’t satisfied. "And what of the Romano alliance? What happens now that Matteo’s gone?"

Luca leaned back, folding his hands. "What happens," he said slowly, "is that the Romano name ceases to exist. Their remaining lieutenants will be offered two choices: surrender and swear loyalty... or vanish."

The declaration landed like a thunderclap. No one dared argue.

When the meeting ended, several allies approached Aria privately, their tones respectful, even deferential. She realized then that Luca was right, standing beside him didn’t just make her his wife. It made her a symbol. The Queen to his King.

Later, in the quiet of their private suite, Aria found Luca staring out at the garden again. The tension from the meeting hadn’t left him. It clung to him like smoke.

"They fear you," she said softly.

He didn’t turn. "They should."

She moved closer. "And they respect you. Because of how you carry that crown."

He gave a low, humorless laugh. "A crown made of bones and blood. Tell me, Aria, what kind of king does that make me?"

"The kind who survives," she answered. "And that’s more than most men in your world can say."

He turned then, his eyes dark and searching. "You make it sound noble."

"It’s not noble," she admitted. "It’s necessary."

They stood there for a long moment, silent but connected, the weight of everything between them pressing down and holding them up all at once.

Finally, Luca reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. He opened it; inside was a gold locket with an intricate design. Aria gasped softly.

"This was Matteo’s," he said quietly. "He wore it every day until... well."

She hesitated. "Why are you giving it to me?"

"Because he would have wanted it kept in the family," Luca said. "And because I need to remember that not everything we’ve lost has to stay lost."

She took it gently, her thumb brushing over the engraving, two intertwined initials: M.D. and L.D.

"It’s beautiful," she whispered.

"So were we, once," Luca said. "Before power took everything."

Aria reached up, fastening the locket around her neck. "Then let this remind you that love can still exist in the ashes."

He smiled faintly, pulling her into his arms. "You always know what to say, don’t you?"

"Only because I know what you need to hear."

He kissed her then, slow and deep, a fragile blend of grief and devotion.

Outside, the wind howled through the trees, carrying away the last remnants of Matteo’s storm.

Inside, beneath the soft glow of the chandelier, the King and Queen of shadows stood united once more, not because their world was safe, but because their love had become the only weapon left strong enough to face it.

And though the war might have ended, the weight of the crown had only just begun to settle on their shoulders.

The weeks that followed were a masterclass in controlled chaos. Luca moved with surgical precision, absorbing Matteo’s fractured network piece by piece. Lieutenants who swore fealty were rewarded with territory and trust; those who resisted vanished quietly into the night, their absences explained away as "retirements." The Russians tested borders with tentative shipments, but Luca’s response was swift: a cargo vessel "lost" at sea, its crew compensated generously to ensure silence.

Aria, her pregnancy now a gentle swell beneath tailored dresses, became the empire’s unseen architect. She hosted wives and daughters of capos in the estate’s sunlit salons, weaving alliances with tea and empathy. "We build families, not just fortunes," she’d say, her hand cradling her belly. Whispers spread: the Queen carried the future, and crossing her meant crossing legacy itself.

One evening, Vito Mancini arrived unannounced, hat in hand. "I was wrong to doubt," he admitted gruffly. "Your way... it works." Luca accepted with a nod, but Aria saw the calculation in his eyes, another piece secured on the board.

Nights brought vulnerability. Luca traced the locket at Aria’s throat, voice raw. "I dream of him sometimes. Not the traitor, the boy who stole figs from the kitchen with me."

She held him through the tremors. "Honor both. The brother and the lesson."