BASTARD SON OF THE VIKINGS

Palermo lay like a wounded beast beneath the bruised night sky. Its narrow streets glistened with rain-slicked stones, mirroring the city's pulse in fractured streaks of red and gold. The old churches held their breath, bells silent, watching from the shadows as sin painted the hours.

Tonight was not a night for silence.

It was a night of blood and triumph.

The Luce Rossa Nightclub throbbed like a living heart at the center of Via Roma, its crimson neon bleeding into the dark. Luxury cars lined the curb, engines cold, their guards standing like statues hewn from stone. To step inside was to be swallowed-by heat, by bodies, by the cloying mix of perfume and smoke, by the desperate energy of men who lived one breath from death and celebrated each night as if it were their last.

The Vikings owned the hour.

Their victory roared through the walls, shaking the very foundations. A shipment worth millions had crossed continents untouched. Lieutenants, drunk on power and whiskey, slammed glasses and threw money, boasting of scars and close calls. Women laughed in their laps, fingers tracing faces hardened by violence.

And in the center of the storm stood a man who commanded the room without uttering a word.

Guerrero Valenti.

Tall, broad-shouldered, carved from shadow and tempered steel. His dark hair was tied back, a few strands escaping to brush a jawline that looked carved from stone. His white shirt clung to his frame as if afraid to fall out of line. His hands-large, scarred, deceptively still-rested at his sides. Those who knew him understood they could end a life between heartbeats.

Guerrero did not shout. He did not boast. His silence was more dangerous than another man's rage.

Lucia Romano knew the stories. All of Palermo did.

But seeing him tonight was different.

She leaned against the bar, one hand wrapped around a chilled glass, the other resting lightly on the polished wood. Her dark hair cascaded in waves down her back, her olive skin steady under the strobing lights. Every man in the room watched her. She watched only one.

She had been raised among monsters. She knew the performance of power-the posturing, the empty threats, the show of teeth without bite. Guerrero was no performer. He simply was, and the world around him bent to that truth.

Her own pulse quickened. She despised the betrayal.

Her cousin Enzo, the club's sharp-eyed guardian, leaned close, his breath warm with whiskey. "He hasn't stopped looking at you," he murmured. "Guerrero only notices what matters."

Lucia took a slow sip. "Let him look."

Enzo's grin was a slanted, knowing thing. "He doesn't look lightly."

Before she could reply, Guerrero moved.

He didn't walk; he cut. The crowd parted for him like silk beneath a blade. The noise near him dimmed to a hush.

When he reached her, he didn't speak. His gaze traveled over her face, her hair, her mouth. Lucia held that gaze, refusing to yield. If he wanted to