The air in my study was thick with tension, the weight of the impending decisions hanging heavy in the silence. The dim light of the chandelier above cast long shadows across the polished mahogany table, where my men sat in various states of unease. The scent of cigars mingled with the faint metallic tang of fear-a familiar combination in my world.
I sat at the head of the table, a glass of bourbon resting untouched at my side. The fire in the grand stone hearth crackled softly behind me, its light casting flickering shadows on the dark oak walls. I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled before my lips as I surveyed the room. My silence was deliberate. It wasn't about intimidation-though I knew it had that effect-it was about watching, observing who dared to speak first and how they did it.
The men around the table shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting to me and then quickly away, like prey unsure if the predator had already decided on the kill. My gaze was steady, cold, and calculating as I took in each of their faces. Loyalty was fragile in this world, easily shattered by fear or ambition, and I could spot the cracks before they even appeared.
Finally, a voice broke the silence, hesitant and tremulous. "The Russians," he began, clearing his throat as if trying to summon courage, "they've moved on the eastern docks. Our shipments-"
I raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. My movements were slow, deliberate. I didn't need to shout or make dramatic gestures; my presence alone was enough. The room fell silent again, the only sound the soft clink of my signet ring against the crystal tumbler as I picked up the bourbon.
Taking a slow sip, I let the burn of the liquor roll down my throat before setting the glass down. "The Russians," I said, my voice low and even, carrying an edge sharp enough to slice through the tension. "They were warned." I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the table as I clasped my hands together. My gaze locked on the man who had spoken, and he visibly shrank under its weight.
"And yet," I continued, my tone deceptively calm, "they've decided to test me. To test us." I let the words hang in the air, watching as their implications sank into the minds of everyone present.
Standing, I adjusted the cuffs of my tailored black suit, the fabric pristine and unwrinkled despite the weight of the moment. My movements were precise, every step calculated as I approached the table, looming over the map spread across its surface. The territories were neatly marked, our empire sprawling like veins through the city. The Russians' incursion was marked in red-a bold, almost insolent streak across our control.
I picked up the silver letter opener from the table, its blade glinting in the firelight as I twirled it between my fingers with practiced ease. The room was silent except for the faint hiss of the fire, every pair of eyes fixed on me. "What we're dealing with here isn't just about territory," I said, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "This is about power. My power."
I drove the letter opener into the map, the point sinking into the red-marked territory with a sharp, decisive motion. The men flinched at the sound, though I remained composed, my expression unreadable. "I want this dealt with. Completely. No survivors, no loose ends. Make it loud enough that the world remembers why the name Lucifer Salvatore Di Carlo is spoken in whispers."
The men nodded in unison, murmuring their assent, though their fear was palpable. I turned my back to them, my gaze falling on the fire as I removed the letter opener and set it down with care. "Failure is not an option," I added, my tone softer now but no less dangerous. "And if anyone thinks otherwise... well, you'll answer to me."
The room was dismissed, the men filing out one by one, their footsteps quick and uneasy. I remained behind, staring into the flames as they danced against the stone. My empire was built on blood and fire, and I would burn the world before letting anyone take it from me.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. It was Marco, my right-hand man, his expression carefully composed as he entered. "The preparations have been made, boss," he said. "Our men are ready."
I nodded, my gaze never leaving the fire. "Good. Make sure they understand what's at stake. And Marco..." I turned to him, my expression softening just slightly. "Let them know this isn't just a warning. "
He nodded and left, closing the door softly behind him. Alone again, I poured another glass of bourbon and sat down, the flames reflecting in the dark surface of the liquor. The Russians had made their move, but they would soon learn the cost of defying the devil himself.
I smirked, a cold, predatory curve of my lips. The world may have forgotten who I was, but by the time this night was over, they would remember. Lucifer Salvatore Di Carlo wasn't just a name. It was a legacy.
The air was heavy with the faint scent of aged wood and dust as I stepped into the ancestral room. It was a solemn place, untouched by time, its silence almost sacred. The walls were lined with dark walnut paneling, adorned with the portraits of those who came before meâeach frame an echo of a legacy built on blood and power. The soft golden glow from the chandelier above illuminated the room, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across the floor.
I moved forward, my footsteps muffled by the plush Persian carpet that stretched the length of the room. My gaze traveled along the wall, taking in the stern faces staring down at me from their gilded frames. Men and women of the Salvatore family, their expressions frozen in oil and canvas, their eyes cold and unyielding. Each portrait was a reminder of the weight I carriedâthe name I bore and the empire I ruled.
But it was the frame at the center of the wall that held my attention. Larger than the rest, it bore the image of my grandfather. His eyes were piercing, dark as coal, and his expression carried the authority of a man who had commanded respect and fear in equal measure. His suit was impeccable, his silver hair combed back, and the faint hint of a smirk on his lips suggested he knew secrets no one else could fathom.
I stood before the portrait, my hands clasped behind my back, and for a moment, I simply stared. There was no pain, no sadness, not even love as I looked at him. It wasnât that I resented himâI didnât feel anything at all. That had always been my reality. Pain, joy, sorrow⦠they were concepts I understood intellectually, but they never touched me. Not when my parents died, not when my childhood was stolen, and not now.
My lips twisted into a faint smirk as I tilted my head, addressing the lifeless image. "You really did a number on them, didnât you?" My voice was soft, almost conversational, as if expecting him to respond. "Leaving everything to a newborn. Your empire, your throne⦠all for me."
I reached out, brushing my fingers lightly against the gilded edge of the frame. "Did you know what would happen? Did you foresee the chaos youâd create by naming me as your heir?" I chuckled darkly, shaking my head. "Maybe you did. Maybe you wanted them to suffer for their greed. If so, you succeeded."
My hand dropped to my side, and I took a step back, my eyes narrowing as memories surfacedâmemories I didnât bother suppressing. My childhood had been a battlefield, and I had been the enemy. My so-called family took me in after my parentsâ "accident," an orchestrated murder, though theyâd played the grieving relatives well. I was just a newborn then, too young to understand the venom behind their smiles, the malice in their actions.
My grandfather died a day after my parentsâhis heart giving out, or so they claimed. But even as a child, I had suspected there was more to it. His death had left a void, and I, the unwanted heir, had been thrust into their reluctant care. They hated me for what I represented, for the power I held even as an infant.
As I grew older , I was beaten often. Starved, mocked, and treated as an outcast in my own home. They expected tears, screams, some sign of weakness they could exploit. But I gave them nothing. Not a single tear, not a single plea. Their fists hurt, the hunger gnawed at my insides, but I endured it all in silence. And that silence was what enraged them the most.
When the will was read, their hatred turned into something darker. The estate, the wealth, the legacyâall of it was mine. The mafia throne, the empire my grandfather had built brick by bloody brick, had been left to me, bypassing every other member of the family. They were furious, and their cruelty intensified, but I didnât care. Their bitterness only fueled my resolve.
By the time I was seven, I was already training. While other children played, I learned to fight, to kill, to survive. I immersed myself in the world of shadows, sharpening my mind and body into a weapon. My every move was calculated, every step a climb toward reclaiming what was mine. And now, here I stoodâa man shaped by their hatred and my indifference.
I touched my chest lightly, feeling the steady thrum of my heartbeat beneath my palm. My smirk deepened. "They said I had a heart disease," I murmured. "That I wouldnât survive past infancy. Maybe they thought it would break me, make me weaker. But here I am, perfectly fine."
I thought back to the endless doctorsâ visits, the whispered conversations I wasnât meant to hear. They wanted me to believe I was fragile, that I wouldnât last. But the truth? It was just another way to try and control me. Another lie. "Nice try," I muttered under my breath.
I looked back at my grandfatherâs portrait, my smirk fading into something colder, more calculating. "You did one thing right, old man," I said quietly. "You gave me a name that fit. Lucifer. The bringer of light, the bearer of rebellion. The devil himself. You knew what Iâd become, didnât you? You knew Iâd be the one to take it all."
The flames in the chandelier flickered, casting shadows across his painted face. For a moment, it almost seemed as though he was smiling, approving. I turned on my heel, my footsteps echoing in the silent room as I walked away. I didnât need his approval, or anyone elseâs. My path was clear, and my throne was secure.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped into my private penthouse on the 62nd floor. The dim lighting illuminated the grandeur of the space, every corner a testament to the wealth and power I wielded. My room was a masterpiece, a blend of dark, vintage elegance with the finest modern technology woven seamlessly into its design. The walls were clad in deep charcoal gray with intricate silver accents that caught the soft light from the chandelier aboveâa custom piece of cascading black crystal that dripped like frozen obsidian tears.
The floor was polished ebony, reflecting the warm glow of the fireplace that crackled to life automatically as I entered. A massive four-poster bed dominated one side of the room, its black velvet drapes adding a regal, almost ominous presence. The bedding was a mix of rich fabricsâsilk and cashmere in shades of deep crimson and black. Opposite the bed, an entire wall was made of reinforced glass, offering an uninterrupted view of the city below. The skyline sparkled like a sea of stars, the lights of skyscrapers and streetlamps stretching endlessly into the night.
I tossed my jacket onto the leather chaise lounge near the fireplace and headed to the adjoining bathroom. The space was as luxurious as the rest of my place. Black marble countertops with gold veining, a sprawling walk-in shower with sleek gold fixtures, and a freestanding black stone bathtub that seemed to dare anyone to touch it. The mirror above the sink had a built-in screen that displayed the latest news from my network, but I paid it no attention as I splashed cold water on my face.
After freshening up, I returned to the main room and walked toward the balcony. The glass doors slid open soundlessly, and I stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against my skin. The balcony was vast, wrapping around the entire floor, with glass railings that offered a sense of openness without compromising security. From here, I could see the entire city sprawling belowâa testament to my dominance. This building wasnât a palace like the one my ancestors lived in, but it was a modern fortress. A towering glass monolith that pierced the sky, its design both intimidating and awe-inspiring.
Every detail of this place mirrored my world. The interiors were inspired by the ancestral palace, dark and vintage, but with a modern twist that spoke of innovation and power. The building had 62 floors, each serving a specific purpose. The top three floors were mineâmy domain, my sanctuary. The floor I stood on was my personal residence, equipped with every luxury imaginable. Below it, the next two floors housed my private amenitiesâa swimming pool with panoramic views, a state-of-the-art gym, a tennis court, and even a shooting arena. Everything was designed for efficiency, elegance, and power.
From the 59th to the 19th floor was the nerve center of my global operations. High-tech servers, cutting-edge surveillance systems, and a team of elite specialists worked around the clock to maintain my networkâs dominance. This wasnât just a buildingâit was a stronghold, a hub for my empire that stretched across continents. The lower floors, from 18 down, were used for staff accommodations and other essential services. Every detail was accounted for, every corner of this building a reflection of my control.
I leaned against the glass railing, a bottle of aged whiskey in my hand. The amber liquid glowed faintly under the moonlight as I took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through me. My gaze swept across the cityscape, the lights twinkling like the stars I rarely paid attention to.
As I stood there, my mind wandered. I had never known friendship or love, not even in the hollow, shallow way others claimed to. Emotions were alien to me, a concept I observed in others but never experienced myself. Doctors and psychologists had tried to unravel me, but theyâd all failed. Their whispered conclusions only amused me. "A reincarnation of the Devil himself," they said. Maybe they werenât wrong. After all, the name Lucifer wasnât just a coincidence.
My phone buzzed, breaking the silence. I pulled it from my pocket and glanced at the screen. A message from Marco.
Weâre on the upper hand with the Russians.
A smirk tugged at my lips as I read the message. Of course, we were. Victory wasnât something I hoped for; it was something I ensured. Setting the phone aside, I took another sip of whiskey, savoring the burn. The Russians were a minor obstacle, nothing more than a stepping stone in the grander scheme of things.
I didnât bother with dinner. Hunger was a mere inconvenience, one Iâd trained myself to ignore when necessary. My mind was already moving ahead, mapping out the tasks for tomorrow. Meetings, deals, strategiesâit was all part of the game, and I never lost. The city below continued to glitter, unaware of the strings I pulled from my glass tower.
Finishing the last of the whiskey, I placed the empty bottle on the side table and headed to bed. The silk sheets were cold against my skin as I lay down, staring at the ceiling for a moment. My thoughts swirled, not in chaos, but in calculated precision. Tomorrow was another day, another battle, another step in my endless ascent. With that, I closed my eyes, letting the silence of the night envelop me.