Chapters 1: King of Shadows

Dante Moretti lounged in the dark, lavish boundaries of his private study, where secrets hung like thick smoke on every inch of surface. The room was black, pierced only by slivers of light from one desk lamp creating sinister reflections on the dark wood. This was his empire, one in which he governed under terror and control, his word as perfect as any legislation.

He raised a glass of whiskey to his lips and savored the burn as it flowed down his throat, a continual reminder of his power and his alone. He was not bothered; loneliness was a nominal cost for authority. His dominion stretched out over the streets, his influence felt in every alley, every wallet stuffed with illegal money.

Still, tonight a weird restlessness tore at him. Years in the underworld had sharpened his instincts, which also worried him—a new itch he could not get rid of. His whole kingdom seemed to be waiting for anything to upset the peace.

One quiet knock on the door.

"Enter," he replied, his voice like gravel ground to smoothness over years of control.

The door opened, and Enzo, his right-hand man, slid inside with customary quiet efficiency. Bound by blood, survival, and an unwritten loyalty, Stocky, with a visage chiseled out of stone, had been with Dante from the start.

"Boss," Enzo replied, bending his head. "We have a poorer district scenario here. One of our runners was jumped.

Dante's eyes shrank. He set down his glass, intrigued. "By whom??"

"Based on looks, the DiGregorio gang They are testing our area and trying to move in. Enzo's mouth turned in a slightly contemptuous twist. Thought you would be interested in knowing.

Dante's thinking sharpened as his irritation changed to icy attention. Though the DiGregorios had always been audacious, this was a new degree of daring. Approaching his domain was a declaration of war, hence Dante took provocations very seriously. Iron resolve and merciless choices had helped him to build his dominion; nobody questioned him and left unharmed.

Dante said, "Send a message," his voice shockingly quiet. Clearly state that this is not likely to happen once more.

Enzo nodded, then hesitated, staring back at Dante with an odd flutter of anxiety.

"There is also something else, boss."

Dante waited and arched an eyebrow.

“The girl. She is participating.

Dante's quiet cracked like glass. His pulse accelerated as frustration bubbled under the surface. The "girl" in issue was Elena Rossi, a thorn he hadn't anticipated—one he couldn't fully remove. She was actually rather far from his world, not part of it at all. She had made her views about men like him well-known, a fiery spirit apparently resolved to pull everyone out of the darkness. Her unwavering sense of justice, however, put her directly in danger rather than only making her popular among street people.

"What's she doing there?," ask Dante insisted, his voice cut off.

She apparently was trying to keep this kid out of danger. Her meddling made the DiGregorios unhappy. Word of mouth says they became hostile.

Dante's jaw clenched. Elena's rigidity was going to cost her. Ignoring her and writing her off as another do-gooder engaged in a fruitless struggle against the underbrawl of the metropolis should have come naturally. But Dante couldn't get her out of his head; her blazing stare tormented him long after she had left the scene.

Though the idea of her being hurt—by his enemies, no less—twisted something inside him that felt uncomfortably close to wrath, he knew better than to become involved.

"Take care of it," he said, pushing his voice to be steady.

Enzo pauses. Boss, are you quite sure? She's—’

"I said take care of it," Dante reiterated, more sharply this time. Make sure they grasp she is off-limits.

It was a slip—a one-time failure in his iron-fast control—but one he rapidly discounted. Elena was only a variable in his equation of power, a nuisance to control until it started to cause a burden.

Dante sat back, pushing his fingertips together as Enzo went, his head whirled. Something about Elena made him uncomfortable—a fracture in his carefully put on front. She stood for a life free of shadows, one he had long left behind.

Still, something in him sought to guard it.

Dante was walking through the lower area later that evening, a ghost in the shadows merging into the night. He stayed in the lanes, where just those who hated him prowled, eyes darting away as he passed. Everything the empire had taught him—how to be invisible, how to use terror like a weapon, and how to become the darkness itself—was knowledge. But tonight the darkness seemed strange, like though it murmured questions he wasn't ready to respond to.

When he arrived at the street where the fight had taken place, he discovered it empty except for the flickering streetlight creating lengthy shadows. Though the setting was still, almost serene, Dante could feel the traces of conflict hanging about.

"Searching for something"?

The voice startled him; low and piercing through the silence with unexpected clarity. He turned and looked at the man sloppily reclining against the brick wall. Elena. She was bruised, a small scrape on her face, and her eyes glinted fiercely, yet she stood as tall as ever, rebellious even in the wake of violence.

Masking the aggravation in his voice, he asked, "Why are you here?"

Shouldn't I be asking you the same? She crossed her arms and shot back. Her voice was courageous—a tone he was not accustomed to hearing. "I had no idea the great Dante Moretti bothered about something as small as a street fight."

Her comments stung, and he battled the need to show her how "trivial" he could create. But the fire in her eye kept him in place and stirred something he hadn't felt in years.

"Do you have any notion how dangerous this is?" His voice low, he said, stepping forward. You ought not to be here.

Elena laughed, a sour note cutting through his stillness. "You would find me ignorant of that? I call this home, Dante. My life, my universe is this. Not everyone enjoys playing god and hiding in penthouses.

Her comments connected with him, and for a moment he felt the layers of his carefully created persona fall apart. King of the shadows, Dante Moretti felt more exposed than he had ever been in that one instant.

She moved forward and he could see great determination in her eyes.

"Maybe it's you who doesn't fit here."

A yell came from the street before he could answer. Both turned, and Dante's hand slid naturally for his hidden weapon. But it was a civilian, a young man puffing and clearly experiencing distress as he rushed toward them.

"They're back," he gasped, pointing toward the alley. "The Di Gregorios." They still have to be done.

Dante's eyes intensified and he felt a dark thrill. He had been searching for a way to exact clearly who possessed authority in these neighborhoods to remind his opponents But he turned to face Elena and saw she had already headed down the alley, her will unbroken.

"Stay back," he advised, his tone charged with power.

She fixed him, a flash of defiance illuminating her eyes. Dante, you are not the only person ready to defend our city.

Dante sensed something twist inside him as she vanished into the darkness: a curiosity, a thrill, a warning. This was not a fight for dominance alone. It marked the start of a war inside of him, one he had not expected.

One thing was clear as he moved to follow her: change was just about to happen.