Chapter Four – The First Cut
The throne wasn't given.
It was stolen.
And I came back to steal it the fuck back.
The message haunted me all night.
The family doesn't belong to you anymore.
Not a warning. A declaration.
I spent hours sitting at my father's old desk, staring at the leather-bound notebook he left behind. Names. Numbers. Old debts. The bones of an empire crumbling beneath the weight of betrayal.
At 3:14 a.m., Mercy texted.
Mercy:Found Vulture. He's been staying in a secure penthouse at the Carradine Hotel. Private floor. Two guards. Hired last week. No known client on record.
Mercy:You sure you want to go at this now? You're exposed. No backup.
Me:The longer I wait, the more graves I have to dig later.
The Carradine Hotel sat on the edge of Midtown like a smug bastard in a tux. Tall. Clean. Quiet. The kind of place rich men checked into when they needed to disappear—or reappear with blood on their hands.
I didn't go in through the front.
Instead, I bribed a janitor. Entered through the service entrance. Rode the freight elevator up, Glock tucked in my coat, heart pounding like a war drum.
By the time I hit the 32nd floor, I was in kill mode.
No mercy.
I moved like smoke. Silent. Fast.
Two guards stood outside the penthouse suite. Big. Wired. Dumb.
I slipped up behind the first one, drove my elbow into his throat, and slammed his skull into the wall before he could draw breath. The second turned—too slow—and I shot him once in the leg, once in the chest.
He slumped without a scream.
Inside the suite, jazz music played. Some vintage Miles Davis.
And there he was.
Vulture.
Tall, lean, wearing black jeans and a Kevlar vest like it was a fashion choice. He sat at a glass table, cleaning the scope of his sniper rifle. Didn't even flinch when I kicked the door open.
"You're fast," he said. Voice smooth. Calm. Like a man who'd watched a thousand people die and hadn't blinked once. "But not fast enough to catch the next bullet."
"You had the shot," I said, leveling the Glock. "Why didn't you take it?"
"Because I wasn't paid to kill you."
"Then what?"
He looked up. Cold, shark-like eyes. "To test you."
"Test me for who?"
A pause. A smile. "Ask your brother."
I pulled the trigger.
The bullet shattered the glass behind him. Inches from his head.
He didn't flinch.
"That's your one," I said. "Next one goes through your fucking eye."
He leaned back, laced his fingers.
"They're watching you, Luca. Every step. Every phone call. The minute you make your move, the floor drops."
"Then I better learn to fly."
I didn't kill him.
Not yet.
Killing Vulture would make waves. I needed shadows. I needed silence.
But what he said rattled me more than the gunshots ever could.
Ask your brother.
When I got back to the compound, the air was different.
Tense. Heavy. Like something had cracked beneath the surface.
And then I saw it—Giovanni in the driveway, shirt stained in blood, fists trembling.
I approached fast.
"Whose blood?"
"Costello's," he spat. "Found him dead in his club. Shot twice in the head. Clean. No witnesses."
"Message?"
He nodded, eyes hollow. "The body was staged. Tied to his own chair. Eyes open. Mouth gagged. Like someone wanted him to see it coming."
I said nothing.
Because I already knew what it meant.
The first cut had been made.
And the war had officially begun.
Later that night, I stood alone in the garden. Gun in one hand. A lit cigarette in the other. Rain falling in a slow, steady curtain.
Mercy's voice came through my burner phone.
"You spooked Vulture."
"Good."
"He won't talk again."
"He doesn't need to."
"You believe what he said?"
"No." I crushed the cigarette under my heel. "I know what he meant."
A long pause.
Then, softly:
"Be careful, Luca."
"Too late."
The first cut bleeds the loudest.
But it's the second one that kills.
And I'm done waiting.