35

Damon

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man said with a smug smile on his face. He knew I had no evidence, no proof—essentially, I couldn't hold him to anything but a baseless claim.

But I knew that. However, he didn't know what I had up my sleeve. I bent to look at him. "Do you know who I am?" I asked calmly behind my mask. "Of course. Everyone knows who you are. The masked King, the mafia king of that great city of Avalia," he replied. "But this is Rome, this is Italy. You're out of your roots. You cannot come here and behave this way. There are rules, systems to all of this."

Milano broke out into a smile, exposing his gilded teeth. "Perhaps in your little island, there were no rules. After all, the authorities you have, the mafia King and the six ruling households, crime—everything that is dark and horrid—runs amok in your streets. But here, we have rules that we follow. Our kind works from the shadows, and we are respected for doing so. Perhaps it would be a better