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Chapter 2
by Precious · Bloody Sexy
The city of Rome glittered beneath the midnight sky.
From the windows of the tallest private penthouse in the city, the streets looked peaceful.
But peace was an illusion.
Especially when Dante Moretti was awake.
Dante stood in front of the window, one hand resting in the pocket of his black trousers while the other held a glass of whiskey.
Behind him, three men sat silently around a long table.
None of them dared to speak.
Dante's reputation had traveled farther than his empire.
He was thirty years old, but men twice his age feared him.
They called him the Devil of Rome.
Not because he enjoyed violence.
Because when Dante decided someone had to disappear, there was never a second chance.
His phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
One message.
They're dead. All of them.
Dante's jaw tightened.
"How many?" he asked.
The man closest to him swallowed.
"Seven."
Dante slowly turned around.
"Seven Moretti soldiers?"
"Yes, Boss."
"Where?"
"Naples."
Dante placed his glass on the table.
"Who did it?"
"We don't know."
His eyes became colder.
"Then find out."
"We're trying."
Dante stared at him.
The man immediately lowered his gaze.
Dante walked toward the table.
"Trying isn't what I pay you for."
The room went silent.
His right-hand man, Marco, finally spoke.
"The bodies were left at the docks."
Dante stopped.
"Anything else?"
Marco hesitated.
"There was a message."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"What message?"
Marco placed a photograph on the table.
Dante picked it up.
The picture showed one of his dead men lying against a shipping container.
Across the man's chest was a symbol painted in red.
A crown dripping blood.
Dante studied it.
He had seen that symbol before.
"Black Circle," he muttered.
Marco nodded.
"We think so."
Dante's expression darkened.
The Black Circle was supposed to be a myth.
A name whispered by old mafia families.
A secret organization that had supposedly disappeared twenty years ago.
Apparently, it hadn't.
Dante turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
One empire will fall first.
He stared at the words.
"Find every person connected to this symbol."
Marco nodded.
"And Boss..."
Dante looked at him.
"There is something else."
"What?"
Marco hesitated.
"The Volkovs lost men tonight too."
Dante's expression changed.
"How many?"
"Five."
A long silence followed.
The Morettis and the Volkovs had been enemies for decades.
Their history was written in blood.
Dante's father had spent years trying to destroy the Volkov empire.
Valentina Volkov had inherited that war.
And according to everything Dante had heard, she was even more dangerous than her father.
The Bloody Queen.
He had never met her.
But he knew her reputation.
Beautiful.
Brilliant.
Ruthless.
And impossible to control.
Dante walked back toward the window.
"Interesting."
Marco frowned.
"What's interesting?"
"Someone is attacking both families."
"And?"
Dante looked toward the city.
"Someone wants us to blame each other."
Marco's eyes widened slightly.
"Do you think the Volkovs are innocent?"
Dante gave a quiet laugh.
"No."
He picked up his whiskey.
"I think Valentina Volkov is exactly the kind of woman who would shoot first and ask questions later."
Across the city, thousands of lights continued to shine.
Neither Dante nor Valentina knew that their enemies had already begun moving their pieces across the board.
And neither knew that their names were about to become connected in a way neither could escape.
---
Three hours later, Dante entered his private office.
A single envelope waited on his desk.
His expression immediately hardened.
He hadn't heard anyone enter.
He picked it up.
No fingerprints.
No sender.
Only one symbol.
A blood-red crown.
Dante opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
His eyes froze.
The photograph showed Valentina Volkov.
She was standing outside her estate, dressed entirely in black, surrounded by armed guards.
Dante studied her face.
He had expected someone intimidating.
Instead, he found himself staring longer than he intended.
There was something about her eyes.
Cold.
Confident.
Dangerous.
A woman who didn't look like she needed anyone to protect her.
At the bottom of the photograph was a message.
You have both been fighting the wrong enemy.
Dante turned the photograph over.
Another sentence waited for him.
But before you discover the truth, one of you must die.
His fingers tightened around the photograph.
Then his phone rang.
"Speak."
Marco's voice came through immediately.
"Boss, we've found something."
"What?"
"We intercepted a shipment."
"Whose?"
A pause.
"The Volkovs."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"Where?"
"At the eastern docks."
He looked down at Valentina's photograph again.
For some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that the shipment was a trap.
"Don't touch it," he ordered.
"But Boss—"
"I said don't touch it."
He ended the call.
Dante grabbed his coat.
If someone wanted him to fight Valentina Volkov, they had chosen the wrong man.
Because Dante Moretti didn't play games.
He hunted the people who played them.
And tonight...
He was going hunting.