The Don and His Shadows

The smell of blood and expensive cologne clung to the air like fog.

Don Luca Valeri, 5'6 ", black curls, olive skin, sharp cheekbones, and very Italian. Stood at the head of the long mahogany table, one hand resting on the edge, the other smoothing the silk of his tie with lethal precision. His eyes—cold, pale gold, unreadable—drifted over the trembling man kneeling on the marble floor. Red pooled beneath him.

"Tell me again, Alex," Luca said calmly. "Who paid you to put a wire in my house?"

Alex sobbed, torn between prayer and confession. " I-I don't know his name, Don Valeri. Please. I swear on my mother, I didn't mean—"

Luca sighed, slow and deliberate, and stepped back. "Your mother doesn't work for me. You did."

He gave the faintest nod, and the man to his right—Marco Bellanti, his second in command, 6'3" blonde hair, blue-grey eyes, and covered in tattoos—raised his pistol without hesitation. A clean shot rang out, echoing like church bells in a cathedral. The marble drank the rest. The room was silent, save for the clink of the bullet casing spinning to a stop.

Luca turned to his third-in-command. "Get it cleaned up."

Antonio's eyes flicked to the body, then back to Luca. "Done."

The meeting ended without fanfare. Men filed out—silent, deferential. Some avoided Marco's gaze. No one met Luca’s. He walked out of the compound meeting hall alone, his polished shoes echoing off stone. When he reached the side corridor that led to the private tunnel, Marco was already waiting—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dark and unreadable beneath his buzzed hair.

"You didn't have to pull the trigger yourself," Luca said softly as he passed him.

Marco followed, silent for several steps before replying. "You shouldn't have to dirty your hands over rats."

Luca smirked without humor. "They're already dirty, Marco."

They head to Luca's private study in the Villa for a meeting. They travel quietly down the corridor until they reach the secret passage leading to his study.

The study smells like old paper, cigars, and storm rain waiting to break. Luca leans against his father's desk—not his father's anymore, his now—and tries to ignore the weight of the ring on his finger. The Valeri crest presses into his skin like it wants to leave a permanent mark.

Marco stands by the window, broad shoulders tense, hands in his pockets like he's holding himself back from throwing Davide out on the cobblestone driveway. Davide sits across from Luca, draped in a suit that's just a touch too polished for a casual visit. His smile is the sharp kind—something you notice right before it cuts you.

"You've been keeping secrets from me, Luca," Davide says, his voice smooth, almost conversational. "That's not how family works."

Marco's jaw flexes. "Family doesn't dig where they're not invited."

Davide flicks his gaze to Marco, like swatting at an annoying fly. "I wasn't talking to you, soldato."

"I'm not your soldato," Marco shoots back.

Luca raises a hand. "Enough. Both of you." His voice is steadier than he feels. He can practically hear his father in his head: A Don who can't control his men won't keep them long.

"I'm not here to fight," Davide says. "I'm here to make sure Luca remembers who's been watching his back since before he could tie his own shoes."

"That's funny," Marco says, taking a step forward. "Because I seem to remember being the one in front of the bullets."

The air between them could snap in two. Luca forces himself to breathe evenly. He needs them both—Marco's loyalty, Davide's network—but they're circling each other like dogs with old grudges.

"Davide," Luca says carefully, "I want you in a new role. Fourth in command. Intel broker. You'll handle importing and exporting for the family. I trust your skills. I'm sending you to New York for an alliance deal. Don't screw this up. I trust you."

Davide's eyes narrow just slightly, but he nods. "You're giving me a leash, Luca. I'll take it." His smile widens. "For now."

Marco doesn't like it—Luca can read it in the way his fists curl—but he stays silent for Luca's sake.

When Davide leaves, Marco shuts the door with a little more force than necessary.

"You're making a mistake," Marco says, low.

"Maybe," Luca admits. "But he's still family."

Marco studies him for a long moment. "And I'm what?"

Luca meets his gaze. Whispering, "You're the one I'd burn the world for."

It's too much truth too fast, and Luca turns away before he can see Marco's reaction. But behind him, Marco's fists slowly uncurl.

After the meeting, Luca goes to the kitchen for a glass of strawberry milk. Then, he heads toward his bedroom. When he gets there, Marco is already stationed outside like a sentinel. Luca paused there.

"You're staying out here again? You know you have your own bedroom. You can go to. I don't need you to sit at my door all night," he says quietly.

Marco nodded. "I'll be in the hall."

Luca's hand tightened slightly on the doorknob. Then, with a small breath that could almost be mistaken for a sigh, he turned and opened the door.

He slipped inside without a word, and the door clicked shut behind him. The transformation was instant. Inside the master bedroom —behind locks, steel, and the eyes of no one—Luca exhaled.

He peeled off the suit jacket. Kicked off the shoes. Undid the silk tie, setting it gently aside. Then the shirt. The belt. The gun. Every item stripped away the weight of the Don until only Luca remained—barefoot, small, trembling.

He padded softly to the far side of the bedroom, where a cabinet was built seamlessly into the wall. He opened it, revealing a carefully concealed chest. Inside: a soft pink blanket, a worn bunny plush with a sewn-on button eye named BunBun, and a pacifier in pastel blue.

His fingers hesitated. And then he picked them up—hands shaking, but sure.

Ten minutes later, Luca was curled on his oversized Canopy bed with crimson drapes with a hint of pink flowers and black silk sheets with red and pink pillows, beneath his blanket, bunny cradled to his chest, pacifier resting gently between his lips. The cold exterior was gone—no blood, no orders, no steel.

Only him. Safe. Quiet. Alone. Almost.

Through the walls, through the quiet hum of the building, he could feel Marco—always there. Guarding. Watching. His shadow, his sword. He closed his eyes and whispered around the paci, "Goodnight, Marco."

Outside the door, Marco stirred in the chair he never left, hand resting near the gun at his hip. He didn't speak loudly—just enough that it might carry through wood and silence alike.

"Sweet dreams, boss."

And they both pretended—just for the night—that that was enough.