Luca Moretti POV:

The bar, Flicker Flame, was a shithole on the outside, but on the inside, it pulsed with low light and luxury, shadows crawling over brick walls as jazz tangled with smoke and the sting of whiskey in the air. A place like this thrived on the power of men who walked in the city's dark underbelly... the mafioso, the bratva... and the black market kingpins. No one thinks twice about a seemingly backwater bar among a sea of thousands in a rotting city.

Here, deals were made over expensive whiskey and never discussed outside of it.

Men talk differently when they’re drinking. They loosen their tongues, let their guards down, and mistake the burn in their chest for courage to lie and betray. They think I’m out of control like they are. They’re wrong. I’m always in control.

Tonight, I wasn’t just here for whiskey; I was here for Don Carlo Ventresca. Old blood from Naples, slick with charm but as rotten as all the men are in my world, a man my father had failed to sway to his side.

Ventresca controls the docks, and with the docks comes everything—shipments, smuggling, leverage over half the city’s arteries. If I secure his loyalty, if I take what my father couldn’t, the balance shifts. My claim to the family throne becomes undeniable.

Salvatore Moretti, my bastard of a father, would have no choice but to step aside.

That’s why I tolerated it when Ventresca brought me an “offering”—a blonde escort draped in cheap perfume and a smile too empty for the money used to buy her time.

I didn’t want her near me, but refusing her outright might have cost me the deal I needed. So I let her hover.

But when her hand clung to my arm, I closed my eyes. Not because of her—but because I could feel it. The daggers you were boring into the back of my head. You saw her, and you saw me let it happen, and I could almost hear the accusations forming in your silence.

Did I say I was always in control? There are exceptions, and you were one of them.

"Fuck me…" I mutter so low that no one notices the curse.

Still, I didn’t forget why I was here, and I secured the deal in minutes. Ventresca gave the nod, the kind men don’t hand out lightly. The docks were mine now—my father’s failure corrected by my hand. The moment the papers and promises were exchanged, I shrugged the blonde off with practiced ease, peeling her grip from my arm as though she were nothing but a wrinkle in my sleeve. A curt smile at the Don—professional, cold, enough to close the matter—and I was finished.

I didn't even hesitate in my movements as I closed the distance from the booth at the back towards the bar where you had perched to wait for me.

Regardless, I knew that the blonde touching me was the spark you needed... That’s how I started the game tonight.

This is the game we play. The push and pull. The slow burn. It was us. It was ours.

You answered my error with the escort by smiling at another man.

Some nobody when faced in my shadow. You never had to do much; all it took was a smile that wasn't directed at me, and it was always just enough to ignite the angry green fire under my ribs.

My jaw locked, my eyes pinned you, but you didn't look my way. But dammit, I knew you could sense me in your peripheral vision.

Your smile was MINE. MY girlfriend. MY cuore (heart).

His hand is sliding too close to your lower back now, and it was taking an obscene amount of restraint not to pull my gun out and break the Flicker Flame rules of no violence under its roof.

I wondered, just for a violent second, if tearing it off and feeding it back to the bastard would be noticed. Probably. So I chose the more civilized path.

I caught his wrist in my harsh grip. Bones strained under my hand, and I heard the protest before I shoved him hard, toppling him off his stool. He hit the ground at your feet, exactly where he belonged.

I leaned in, my breath hot against your ear.

“You done playing, cuore mio (My Heart)?” I say, my voice deeper with the jealous edge you had successfully pulled out of me as punishment.