The Devil watches Quietly

The villa was cold and candlelit.

Time seemed to stretch in its halls.

Luca was led to a great room lined with old books, and there, in a leather chair facing the fire, sat the man who damned them all.

> “Come closer, ragazzo,” the old man rasped, sipping dark wine.

“Let me look at what my curse has made.”

Luca didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, eyes steady.

Salvatore studied him in silence, one king to another.

The boy was tall now. Built like Giovanni. Eyes colder than both.

> “You don’t sign,” the old man said, amused. “No hands waving around like a trained monkey. I respect that.”

Luca said nothing.

> “You’ve made enemies,” Salvatore continued. “Both your brothers. Half the capos. Maybe even your father.”

Still, no reply. Just a calm stare.

Salvatore chuckled. Low and dry.

> “You remind me of me,” he whispered. “But smarter.”

He stood slowly, leaning on a cane made from olivewood and ivory. He walked over to Luca—close enough to smell the blood on the boy’s aura.

> “But here’s the truth, child. You’re not cursed.”

“You’re chosen.”

Luca frowned slightly.

> “Words are weapons, sì. But silence…” Salvatore leaned in, voice now a hiss,

“Silence is death. It devours. And you… you’ve become death.”

Then, for the first time in Luca’s life, his grandfather reached out—

and placed a hand on his shoulder.

> “They think you’re broken. But I see it now. You’re perfect.”

He smiled, and it was the most terrifying smile Luca had ever seen.

> “When I die, they’ll fight over the bones of this empire. But you… you’ll be the one they fear.”

“You’ve already won. Just don’t ruin it by falling in love like your father did.”

He turned back toward the fire, dismissing him without a word.

Outside the villa, Luca stood under the cold stars for a long time.

He felt the weight of that moment in his bones.

The devil had looked at him and seen a successor. Not a mistake. Not a cursed heir.

A king.

His mother Isabella Romano-De Luca showed up in front of him.

She was elegant, composed, and smarter than anyone gave her credit for. Giovanni chose her not for politics or alliances, but because she never flinched in a room full of killers.

She gave him three sons.

She loved all of them…

But she ached for the first.

As the years passed, Isabella became Luca’s quiet guardian.

She taught him how to read people by their eyes.

She slipped him books on war, psychology, history.

She fought teachers who said he was “incapable,” and buried classmates' complaints in silence.

But she couldn’t protect him from his brothers.

She tried—God, she tried—but Marco and Enzo were loud, entitled, jealous.

They mocked Luca behind her back, sometimes even to her face.

Once, when Marco made Luca cry at six years old, she slapped him so hard he bled from the mouth.

She looked him in the eye and said:

> “Mock him again, and you’ll lose your tongue.”

And Marco believed her.

Still, she could see it:

Luca pulling away.

Not just from his brothers, but from her.

The more powerful he became, the colder he got.

The more feared he was, the less he let her in.

He didn’t want her pity.

Didn’t want to be her cursed son.

So she stopped trying to shield him.

And started preparing him.

She gave him a ring.

Old. Heavy. Silver with a black gem.

> “This belonged to your great-grandfather. He ruled with silence too. Not because he had to—because he chose to.”

“Happy Birthday Luca. You're 18 now.”

She looked him dead in the eye.

 “You’re not broken, Luca. You’re just different. And they’ll never understand that until it’s too late.”

He stared at her. Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile.

But he wore the ring every day from then on.

Now, in his rise, Isabella watches from the shadows.

Proud. Terrified.

Because she knows how dangerous her son has become.

And how lonely kings really are.

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