Extraction

The car moved through the city without urgency, headlights cutting clean lines through the dark. Luca sat in the back seat, posture relaxed, hands resting loosely on his thighs. To any observer, he appeared resigned to his role. Useful. Expendable. The perfect “asset.”

Yet inside, every instinct was awake, every sense on alert.

So this is how they do it, he thought. Not force. Not blood. Paper. Protocol. Permission.

His father’s signature didn’t need to be on the letter for him to recognize the shape of it. Don Vittorio Santoro never reached directly when precision would do the job cleaner. And Alessia… Alessia would have seen the angle immediately. The Valentis would never hand him over willingly. Not without leverage.

This meeting was the leverage.

The only way to pull him out of Valenti territory alive was to make him leave it himself. As an asset.

Luca’s gaze lingered on the window, watching the city slide past in fragmented light and shadow. Guards at the gates. Cameras. Men who pretended not to watch him but always did. He had counted them days ago. Too many exits sealed. Too many eyes. No clean break.

Running would have exposed him. Staying would have killed him.

This was the narrow path between.

Bella sat in the front passenger seat. He could catch her reflection in the glass if he focused. The line of her jaw was tight, controlled. She hadn’t looked back at him since they left the estate.

Good, he thought. Distance is safer.

Marco drove. Calm. Focused. The kind of man who noticed everything and trusted nothing. Luca could feel the awareness like pressure in the car, subtle but constant. Marco knew this meeting was dangerous. He didn’t know why it felt inevitable.

Luca did.

They think I’m the unknown variable, he thought. They think they’re bringing insurance.

He almost smiled.

If the Valentis had known who he was, they would never have put him in the car. If Marco were certain, he would have stopped this before it began. And Bella… Bella would have looked at him differently. Not with tension. Not with confusion.

With betrayal.

The thought tightened in his chest. He ignored it.

This isn’t about feelings. This is extraction.

Don Vittorio would be waiting on the other side of that warehouse with the patience of a man who expected obedience as naturally as breath. Alessia would be there too. Not behind him. Beside him. Always beside him. Proof that this wasn’t a negotiation. It was a reclaiming.

They don’t know if I remember, Luca thought. That’s the risk.

The car slowed as they turned off the main road. The docks loomed ahead, skeletal cranes rising like ribs against the night sky. Luca adjusted his cuff, a small movement grounding him. The weight of the pistol at his side was familiar. Comforting. Honest.

He glanced once toward Bella’s reflection, just long enough to register the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand hovered near her weapon.

I’m sorry, he thought, without softness. Without drama. This is the only way I keep you alive.

The car rolled on toward the warehouse, tires humming against the asphalt. Luca leaned back, expression calm, unreadable. By the time the doors opened, he would be ready.

The warehouse at the eastern docks breathed decay and old secrets. Salt hung heavy in the air. Rust gnawed at the steel beams overhead. A single row of industrial lights cut the darkness into harsh, uneven bands, leaving corners swallowed by shadow. Perfect neutral ground. Perfect place to die.

The Valenti cars rolled in slow and deliberate, tires crunching over gravel. Bella stepped out first, coat dark, posture straight, every movement controlled. Marco followed half a step behind her, eyes scanning exits, counting angles, marking threats that hadn’t yet revealed themselves.

Then Luca.

He moved last. Calm. Watchful. Anonymous by design. No insignia, no visible loyalty. Just a man standing slightly apart, exactly as an asset should.

Marco’s instincts sharpened as he led the group down the shadowed corridor toward the meeting point. Every step measured, every glance calculated. He could feel it—the tension radiating off Luca, the way Bella moved, protective yet alert.

He had a sinking suspicion, one he dared not voice: this young man, quiet, composed, seemingly uncertain of himself… was Luca Santoro. The missing heir. His gut twisted, a mixture of fear and respect. If his hunch was right, then this meeting wasn’t just some routine negotiation—it was about Luca.

Marco’s jaw tightened. If Vittorio and Alessia were orchestrating this, they intended to draw him out.

Across the open space, someone was already waiting.

Alessia stood near the center of the warehouse, framed by shadow, elegant as a blade. She didn’t move when they arrived. She didn’t need to. Her gaze went straight to Luca.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t cruel. It was precise. Recognition without permission.

Luca felt it hit like a pressure change in his chest. He kept his face blank, eyes steady, posture loose. The man with no memory. The man with no past.

Marco noticed the smile. Bella didn’t.

Moments later, footsteps echoed again. Heavier. Slower. Authority made audible.

Don Vittorio Santoro entered from the far side, flanked by men who knew better than to stand too close. He didn’t rush. He didn’t scan. He already knew the room belonged to him as much as anyone else.

From the opposite entrance, Don Giovanni Valenti arrived.

The air shifted.

Old power recognized old power. Two men who had buried too many others to pretend this was just business. They stopped a few paces apart, eyes locking, measuring how much time had taken from the other’s face.

“Giovanni,” Vittorio said mildly.

“Vittorio,” Giovanni replied. No warmth. No hostility. Just history.

They took their places. Not seated. Never seated.

The opening words were careful. Trade routes. old agreements. Borders that existed more in blood than on maps. Voices low. Controlled. Men posturing without raising their chins.

Bella stayed silent, as instructed. Marco watched everything.

Luca stood where he was placed. Asset. No name. No weight.

Then Alessia tilted her head.

Her eyes slid back to Luca, sharp now, intent.

She looked at Bella.

“Who is that?” Alessia asked, tone deceptively light.

Bella answered without hesitation. “An asset. Unregistered. No name.”

The word landed harder than a bullet.

Luca inhaled. Deep. Slow. And then, without meaning to, he closed his eyes. Just for a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

Alessia’s smile vanished. Her expression sharpened into something cold and focused, like a lock clicking open.

“Is he?” she asked quietly. Not to Bella. To the space itself.

Luca opened his eyes.

Marco’s jaw tightened. He already knew. This was the moment he had been waiting for, dreading, confirming every instinct he’d had since the beginning.

Luca took a slow, deliberate step forward. Bella’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?” she whispered, barely audible, panic rising.

He didn’t answer. He moved past her, each step measured, controlled. Marco’s eyes narrowed, recognizing the unmistakable gravity of the moment. Don Giovanni froze, shock etching deep lines across his face.

Luca reached the side of Don Vittorio and Alessia, his dark eyes calm, unwavering. Bella’s breath caught in her throat. She felt it—the irreversible turn of events.

Alessia’s lips curved into a sly, triumphant smile. Don Vittorio’s expression softened, a mixture of relief and astonishment flooding through him.

“Thank you,” Don Vittorio said, his voice low but firm. “For keeping my son safe. I never imagined… enemies working so well with… enemies.”

Bella’s eyes flicked to Luca, voice barely a whisper: “Luca Santoro…”

He turned toward her, meeting her gaze with the same intensity. “Isabella Valenti,” he replied, tone steady, measured—but the weight of the names, their legacies, and everything between them hung in the air.

A pause lingered. Every heart in the room felt it. The balance of power, trust, and betrayal had shifted.