Chapter 1

The Master

Arriving at the mansion, I stepped out of the car, the evening air cool against my skin. The maids, lined up like silent sentinels, awaited our arrival. Their eyes lowered in deference as I crossed the threshold, handing my coat to one of them. The massive twenty-foot doors closed behind me with a resonant thud, sealing off the world outside and reinforcing the fortress-like nature of my home.

James, my driver, followed closely. A tall, imposing man of fifty, he had served my father with unwavering loyalty before me. Despite his age, his vision remained sharp, his reflexes quick. He was more than just a driver; he was a constant reminder of the legacy I upheld. The Vincenzo name was synonymous with fear and dominance, a tradition I was determined to continue with every calculated step I took.

My name is Aster Vincenzo, a name given by my mother, inspired by the star-like flower considered sacred to ancient Greek and Roman deities. Unlike the rest of my family, who had the dark eyes of our heritage, I was born with piercing grey eyes, marking me as different, as destined. This difference set me apart, a symbol of power and a harbinger of fate.

James opened the door to my office, and I strode in, the heavy oak door closing behind me. I settled behind the massive mahogany desk, the scent of polished wood mingling with the faint aroma of tobacco. Piles of documents awaited my attention: reports from the Alcoves, missives from hired killers, and letters from lower Mafia leaders under my control. Each document represented a piece of the intricate web of power and influence I had spun.

I picked up the first letter. Alessandra Moncini, widow of the late Don Carlo Moncini, requested funds to expand their counterfeit makeup operation. Her loyalty to her deceased husband was touching, if futile. Even in old age, she sought to continue the legacy of deceit and profit they had built together.

The second letter was from Marco De Luca, a new Mafia leader seeking an alliance. I raised an eyebrow and looked at James. “Marco De Luca, is he the son of Harris De Luca?”

James nodded. “Yes, sir. Marco is indeed the son of Don Harris.”

A slow smile spread across my face. Marco, the arrogant offspring of Harris and his late mistress, who had died in the 2010 Catiden bombing.

This was interesting. Harris’s bloodline, tainted with arrogance and hubris, now sought my favor.

“Harris still hasn't replied to my offer of five million for Oleander, correct?” I asked, my tone icy, the underlying menace unmistakable.

James confirmed. “According to Harris’s right hand, Oleander is not for sale at this time.”

Disrespect. Unacceptable. I was the emperor of this country’s underworld, and I would tolerate no such impertinence. Harris would regret this, just as he would regret betraying my Luna. My thoughts were a maelstrom of dark intentions, each more vengeful than the last.

“James, gather our men from the west and east wings at the main Alcove,” I commanded, starting to write a letter of command. My pen moved swiftly, each stroke imbued with authority.

I poured my intent into every word, the ink seeping into the paper like the tendrils of my influence spreading through the underworld. The scratching of the pen against the parchment was the only sound in the room, a symphony of power and precision.

After I finished writing, I affixed my signature with a flourish, the final mark of my will. I slid the letter across the polished surface of my desk towards James. He bowed deeply, a gesture of respect and acknowledgment of the gravity of the command I had just issued.

James took the letter with the reverence it deserved, his movements deliberate and mastered. He stepped back and moved to a side table where a small copying machine stood ready. The whirring of the machine began as he meticulously made two copies, the faint hum of the mechanism a counterpoint to the tension in the room.

Once the copies were made, James carefully placed each one into a red envelope. He pressed the wax seal with our organization’s dragon insignia, the crimson wax melting under the pressure of the stamp, forming the emblem that symbolized our power and authority. The dragon, fierce and unyielding, marked the envelopes as containing commands that were to be followed without question.

Our personal messenger, a young man whose agility and discretion had earned him this crucial role, stepped forward. He took the two sealed envelopes from James with a solemn nod, understanding the weight of the task he was about to undertake. His eyes flickered with a mixture of determination and fear; he knew the importance of delivering these messages without delay.

I stood by the window, smoking an expensive cigar, watching the messenger leave. The smoke curled around me, a whisper of power and control. My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the spy I had sent to follow Oleander. He knelt behind me, his fear palpable in the stillness of the room.

“Speak,” I commanded, turning to face him, my gaze as cold and unyielding as steel.

The man trembled, sweat beading on his forehead. “Sir, the Oleander… she killed four of the top five assassins sent by Don Harris. They were meant to kill her for a fifty million dollar bet from another rich man.”

I laughed, the sound echoing through the room, a dark symphony of amusement and menace. Extinguishing my cigar, I turned back to my desk, the flickering shadows playing across my features. I glanced at the trembling spy before turning my attention to the photograph of Oleander. Her image was a beacon of strength and beauty, a symbol of my desire and possession.

“Tell James to prepare the cars and five men. I will personally deal with this,” I instructed, my voice a silken promise of retribution.

The spy hurried to relay my orders, his relief palpable. I slipped the woman’s picture into my pocket, feeling the thrill of anticipation course through me.

The maids handed me my coat, which I caught as it floated through the air, putting it on with a flourish. Every movement was deliberate, a display of control and power.

With five guards, the spy, and James, we loaded into two cars. The prospect of seeing my lovely killer again filled me with exuberance, knowing the rage that would burn in her eyes when she learned of her betrayal. She was mine, and no one would take her from me. The darkness within me swelled, a tide of possessive fury and vengeful desire.

“I am coming, Via,” I whispered to myself, the dark excitement palpable as we drove into the night. The city lights blurred past, a kaleidoscope of impending chaos and retribution. The anticipation was intoxicating, the promise of what was to come a dark thrill that quickened my pulse and sharpened my focus. This night would mark the beginning of a reckoning, a return of my Luna to my side, where she belonged.