The nightclub reeked of sweat, alcohol, and bad decisions. A haze of cigarette smoke curled around the chandeliers, dimming the golden light that glinted off crystal glasses and gunmetal. At the far end of the VIP lounge, Matteo De Luca sat like a king in exile, legs spread lazily, a glass of bourbon resting in his hand. His dark suit hugged broad shoulders, and the tattoos peeking out from his collar marked him for what he was—the next in line to the De Luca syndicate.

Matteo had the kind of presence that silenced a room without him needing to say a damn word. Thirty years old, with steel-gray eyes that had seen too much blood, he was already known as *Il Principe di Ferro*—The Prince of Iron. Men feared him. Women whispered about him. And rivals cursed his name.

Tonight, though, he wasn’t alone.

Across from him, leaning with reckless arrogance against the velvet seat, sat Rafael Romano—the heir of the Romano crime family. Twenty-four, sharp-mouthed, fire-eyed, and completely unbothered by the tension crackling between them. If Matteo was steel, Rafael was fire—hotheaded, uncontrollable, the kind of flame that burned everything in its path.

They hated each other. They always had.

“You look bored, De Luca.” Rafael’s smirk was a taunt, his voice laced with mockery as he swirled his wine. “What’s wrong? Too old to keep up with the kids?”

Matteo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He leaned back, taking a slow sip of bourbon, letting the silence stretch. He knew silence unnerved people more than words. But Rafael wasn’t like most people.

“Careful,” Matteo finally said, his voice low, roughened by smoke and control. “Mouths like yours don’t live long in this city.”

Rafael chuckled, leaning forward, his face inches away, their breath mingling like fire and steel colliding. “Then maybe you should be the one to shut me up.”

The air between them thickened. Neither moved back. Neither blinked. The hatred was real, but beneath it—something else pulsed. Something neither of them dared name.

The music thudded in the background, bass shaking the walls, but Matteo only heard his own heartbeat as his gaze dropped, just for a second, to Rafael’s lips. Too soft for a man who killed with such reckless ease. Too tempting.

He forced his eyes back up. Dangerous. Reckless. Stupid.

The Romano brat was an enemy. Always had been. Always would be.

“Not tonight,” Matteo muttered, standing, towering over Rafael. He buttoned his jacket with deliberate calm, the leather of his gloves creaking. “But one day, Romano… one day I’ll put you on your knees.”

Instead of fear, Rafael’s smirk widened into something feral, daring. “I’ll be waiting.”

Matteo turned, leaving the lounge, but the fire stayed in his chest long after.

Enemies. He reminded himself. Always enemies.

But his body hadn’t gotten the message. What to do now?

The back alley stank of piss, gunpowder, and cheap vodka. Somewhere behind the neon buzz of the club, muffled gunshots cracked like firecrackers. Matteo adjusted his gloves, stepping over the limp body of some unfortunate dealer who had tried to run with De Luca money. Business as usual.

But tonight, fate wasn’t interested in letting him keep control.

“Rough night, De Luca?”

That voice again. Cocky, familiar, grating.

Matteo turned slowly, gray eyes narrowing. There, leaning against a graffiti-stained wall as though the alley was a catwalk, stood Rafael Romano. His shirt collar was loose, his jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder, and in his hand he dangled a switchblade like it was a toy.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Romano?” Matteo’s voice dropped, colder than the steel tucked under his suit jacket.

Rafael grinned, teeth flashing in the dim light. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you work. You do have a certain… brutality about you. Like an artist with a paintbrush, only your canvas screams.”

Matteo’s jaw ticked. He hated the way Rafael spoke—like every word was designed to crawl under his skin.

“You shouldn’t be here. This is De Luca territory.”

“Please,” Rafael scoffed, stepping closer. “Territory lines are bullshit. A street here, a bar there—it’s all just smoke and pissing contests. And you…” He tilted his head, those sharp amber eyes catching the glow of the alley light. “You piss bigger than anyone, don’t you?”

Matteo had him against the wall before he realized he’d moved. One gloved hand gripped Rafael’s throat, pressing him back, while the other pinned his wrist, the switchblade clattering to the ground.

Rafael’s breath hitched—not in fear, but something else. Something that made Matteo’s pulse spike.

“You’ve got a death wish,” Matteo growled, voice rumbling low. “One day, someone’s going to carve that smart mouth off your face.”

Instead of flinching, Rafael leaned in, lips brushing Matteo’s ear, voice a whisper meant to provoke. “Maybe I want it to be you.”

Matteo froze. His grip tightened unconsciously, thumb brushing the line of Rafael’s jaw. Too close. Too dangerous.

For a split second, he saw it—Rafael’s lips parting, the heat of his breath mingling with his own. The thought of crushing that smirk with his mouth hit him harder than any bullet ever had.

He shoved him back abruptly, disgusted at himself, at the fire crawling low in his stomach.

Rafael laughed, low and dark, rubbing his throat where Matteo’s hand had been. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”

Matteo didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just turned, fists clenched, storming out of the alley like he could outrun the pulse hammering through him.

Behind him, Rafael called out, voice echoing in the dark.

“You can’t run from it forever, De Luca! One day you’ll break!”

Matteo didn’t look back. But the words clung to him like blood he couldn’t wash off.

The De Luca mansion was quiet that night, too quiet for Matteo’s liking. Usually the halls echoed with the heavy tread of soldiers, the buzz of phones, the low murmur of men moving money and guns like clockwork. Tonight, though, everything was still, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Matteo sat in his father’s study, swirling the last of his bourbon. The amber liquid caught the lamplight, glowing like molten fire. He should’ve been calm, but his mind kept replaying the alley.

Rafael’s laugh.

Rafael’s lips.

Rafael whispering against his ear like a fucking dare.

It pissed him off more than it should.

The door creaked open. Luca De Luca, his father, stepped inside. The old man was a wolf gone gray, scars etched into his weathered face, but the fire in his eyes hadn’t dimmed.

“You’re restless,” Luca said, lowering himself into the leather chair across the desk.

Matteo grunted. “Business never rests.”

His father gave him a sharp look. “Business, or that Romano boy you keep circling like a dog in heat?”

Matteo’s glass slammed against the desk hard enough to crack. “Don’t.”

But Luca only smirked, a predator recognizing another. “You think I don’t see it? The way he gets under your skin? Hate is just another form of hunger, Matteo. And hunger makes men weak.”

Matteo’s silence was damning enough.

Before he could reply, the office door burst open. One of their men stumbled in, panting. “Boss—Matteo—problem at the docks. Romano muscle. They’re blocking our shipment.”

Of course they were.

Matteo grabbed his jacket and gun, all the fury from the alley boiling back to the surface. “Then I’ll remind them whose city this is.”

The docks stank of salt and oil. Cargo containers towered like silent sentinels, shadows stretching long under the floodlights. The tension was thicker than the mist rolling in from the sea.

Matteo’s men stood ready, guns raised. Across the yard, Romano soldiers mirrored them, red armbands marking their allegiance. And at their center—like he was born to stand in the spotlight—was Rafael.

He looked infuriatingly casual, like a man arriving at a party instead of a standoff. His shirt collar was open, throat bare, golden skin gleaming under the light. And of course, that smirk was there—sharp enough to cut.

“De Luca,” Rafael drawled, spreading his arms. “Didn’t expect you’d come in person. Thought Daddy might keep his precious prince locked up safe.”

“Move your men,” Matteo barked, stepping forward, gun heavy at his side. “The shipment’s mine.”

“Funny,” Rafael said, tilting his head. “Because I was about to say the same thing.”

The air vibrated with the click of safeties being released. One wrong move and the night would explode into bullets.

Matteo stalked closer until they were face to face, tension like a blade between them. “You’re playing with fire, Romano.”

Rafael leaned in, voice low, taunting. “Then burn me.”

Matteo’s grip tightened on his gun—but it wasn’t just anger coiling in him. It was something hotter, darker. Something he didn’t want to name.

The first shot cracked the night, and chaos erupted.