BLOOD & ROSES

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The basement beneath Sonny's meatpacking plant on South Halsted reeked of iron and sweat — a smell that lived in the walls like a ghost that refused to leave. Bare bulbs swung on fraying cords overhead, casting jaundiced circles of light that swayed with each roar from the crowd. Dozens of men — dockworkers, soldiers fresh off the boat, Cataldo muscle with cauliflower ears and knuckles like walnuts — pressed shoulder to shoulder around a sunken concrete pit stained the color of old rust. Cigarette smoke hung in veils so thick it bruised the air blue. Money changed hands in crumpled fistfuls, shouted odds swallowed by the noise.

Sonny himself sat in the far corner on a wooden chair like a king on a rotten throne, a half-empty bottle of rye balanced on his knee, his scarred face as still as stone. He didn't watch the fights for entertainment. He watched for useful men.

Tonight, the useful man was new.

Sebastian Legnani — though nobody here knew the last name; Michael had registered him simply as "Seb" — stood in the pit bare-chested, his ribs heaving, a split in his lower lip leaking a thin ribbon of red down his chin. Twenty-four years old. Lean, hungry, built like a greyhound crossbred with a switchblade. His black hair was cropped close, his green eyes bright and feral under the swinging light. He'd won four fights in three weeks. Clean knockouts, every one. The crowd had started chanting his name like a hymn.

Michael leaned against a support beam near the stairs, arms folded, watching his little project with the quiet satisfaction of a man who'd planted a seed and seen it sprout. He'd found Sebastian sleeping in an auto repair shop six months ago —Vittorio's illegitimate son, and Yulia's— the only woman Vittorio truly loved,and also is Michael’s deepest secret love.

The boy had Vittorio's jawline, Vittorio's coloring, and none of Vittorio's money. His grandmother was dying of tuberculosis in a charity ward, he also has a beautiful little sister who has a flower shop . Michael, ever the collector of dangerous secrets, had taken him in quietly — fed him, trained him, kept his mouth shut about the bloodline.

Sebastian should take back what was rightfully his, Michael thought , the boy was more deserving than Lucian to inherit Vittorio's empire.

---

Lucian arrived at eleven-fourteen, stepping through the service entrance as if stepping into a ballroom.

His dark charcoal Chester coat hung open, its black velvet collar catching the light. Beneath it: the impeccable suit, the white French cuffs, the gold cufflinks glinting like a predator's eyes. He smelled of Acqua di Parma and the Cohiba he'd smoked in the car, and beneath that — whiskey. Always whiskey.

He paused at the top of the stairs, emerald eyes sweeping the crowd below with the detached interest of a man surveying livestock.

Ah. The circus is in full swing.

His gaze found Michael first, and something curled behind his smile — something sour.

There he is. Father's loyal terrier. Still pretending he has teeth.

Michael had cornered him last Tuesday after one of the bar girls — what was her name? The blonde? No, the redhead. Did it matter? — had shown up at the emergency room with bruises shaped like fingerprints around her throat. Michael had leaned in close, voice low: "One more, Lucian. One more, and I go to Vittorio." Lucian had smiled, patted Michael's cheek, and said, "You should try the veal at Rosario's. It's divine." 😊

But the threat lingered like a splinter under the nail.

Maybe I'll pull that splinter out tonight.

He descended the stairs slowly, deliberately, each step measured. Men parted for him — not out of respect, but instinct. The way animals moved aside for something that smelled like danger dressed in wool.

Then his eyes landed on the pit.

On Sebastian.

Lucian stopped.

His smile didn't falter. It never did. But something behind his eyes shifted — a gear clicking into a new, darker position.

The black hair. The green eyes. The jawline, sharp enough to cut glass, unmistakably Vittorio's jawline. The resemblance hit him like a slap, and for one crystalline second, the noise of the arena fell away entirely.

...Well, well, well.

His gaze slid to Michael. Michael simply raised the flask in his hand towards him with a cold smile.

So that's your little project, Michael. You've been hiding one of Father's strays. How sentimental. How incredibly, beautifully stupid.

The crowd was cheering for the newcomer's latest victory — Sebastian had just dropped a two-hundred-pound Pole with a right cross that cracked through the basement like a gunshot. Sebastian stood over the fallen man, chest heaving, fists bloodied, and for a moment he looked almost... lost. Like a boy playing at being a wolf.

Lucian removed his coat. Folded it. Handed it to one of Sonny's men without looking at him.

"I'll fight next," he said. His voice was pleasant, conversational — the tone of a man ordering a second martini.

The man holding his coat blinked. "Mr. Cataldo, the kid's already done three rounds tonight—"

"Did I stutter?" Still smiling. Still pleasant. His emerald eyes didn't blink.

"...No, sir."

---

Lucian rolled his sleeves to the elbow as he stepped into the pit, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle and scarred across the knuckles in ways his tailor could never quite hide. He loosened his burgundy tie — just enough — and unbuttoned his collar. The gold cufflinks he left on. A vanity. Or a weapon, depending on how the night went.

Sebastian looked up at him, still breathing hard from the last fight, and frowned. He didn't know who Lucian was — Michael had kept them carefully separated — but something ancient and animal flickered across his face. Recognition without understanding.

"Fresh meat?" Sebastian said, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His voice was rough, South Side. No finishing school. No elocution lessons. Just the street.

Lucian's smile widened. It was radiant. It was the smile of a saint in a painting, beautiful and utterly, terrifyingly empty.

"Something like that," Lucian said softly.

Look at you. You have his eyes. You have his face. But you have none of his cruelty yet, do you? You're still soft in the middle. Like fruit left in the sun.

Let me fix that.

The bell — a rusted pipe struck against a girder — rang.

Sebastian came in fast, low, orthodox stance, hands tight. He was good. Street-trained, no formal boxing, but vicious instincts. His left jab snapped out like a piston, catching Lucian on the cheekbone. The crowd howled.

Lucian's head rocked back. A thin warmth bloomed across his cheek.

...There it is.

He licked the corner of his mouth. Tasted copper.

There's the Cataldo in you.

And then Lucian moved.

Where Sebastian fought like fire — explosive, passionate, burning bright — Lucian fought like water. He flowed around strikes, redirected force, slipped punches by millimeters. And when he hit, he hit like a surgeon: precise, targeted, designed to hurt without immediately finishing. A sharp hook to the liver that made Sebastian's legs buckle. An elbow driven into the floating ribs. A knee to the thigh that deadened the muscle.

He wasn't trying to knock Sebastian out.

He was dismantling him. Piece by piece. Smiling the entire time.

The crowd began to quiet. This wasn't a fight. This was something else. Something that made even hardened men look away.

Sebastian, gasping, swung wild — a desperate haymaker. Lucian caught his wrist, twisted, and pulled him close. To the crowd, it looked like a clinch. But Lucian's lips were at Sebastian's ear.

"I heard your grandmother needs money for treatment," Lucian whispered, his voice silk over broken glass. "Room 4C. Cook County Charity Ward. Tuberculosis. She coughs blood into a handkerchief she hides under her pillow so the nurses won't worry."

Sebastian went rigid. His green eyes — Vittorio's eyes, Lucian's eyes — blew wide.

"How do you—"

But the hesitation was already fatal.

Lucian drove his forehead into the bridge of Sebastian's nose with a crack that echoed off the concrete walls. Blood erupted. Sebastian staggered, blinded, hands flying to his face, and Lucian was on him — a knee to the solar plexus that folded him in half, then an uppercut that launched him off his feet and sent him crashing to the stained concrete floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

The arena shook with noise. Lucian stood over Sebastian's crumpled, barely-conscious form, not even breathing hard. His shirt was speckled with blood — Sebastian's, mostly — and a bruise was already purpling on his left cheekbone. Lucian had no intention of stopping; he was gradually losing control, throwing punch after punch like a vicious dog that wouldn't let go once it had bitten its opponent. Looking at Sebastian's face, so similar to Vittorio's, a surge of pleasure welled up within him, as if he were killing that arrogant and overbearing man.

In the corner, Michael gripped the flask tightly, but didn't stop Lucian.

Sonny frowned, feeling a little regretful, and tilted his head to look at Michael, asking, "Are you sure don’t do anything?"

Michael said coldly, "It's not time yet."

Sebastian hit the blood-stained canvas like a sack of dead weight, his eyes rolling back, blood pooling from his nose and split lips. Lucian stood over him, breathing evenly, his polished dress shoes stepping lightly in the gore. He raised his foot, fully intending to shatter his newfound half-brother’s kneecap just for the sheer thrill of it.

But then, through the haze of gray cigar smoke and the blinding glare of the overhead incandescent bulbs, his eyes caught an unmistakable, breathtaking silhouette standing near the edge of the chain-link enclosure.

Lucian's entire body went still.

...No.

That's—

His emerald eyes locked onto her. The noise of the arena compressed into a single, ringing frequency, and every bruise, every ache, every dark thought dissolved like sugar in hot water.

{{user}}?

*...What is she doing here? *

She shouldn't be here. This place is filth. It's rot. It's—

She's so beautiful.

She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Sonny followed Lucian's gaze across the crowd, then saw {{user}}. A surge of fearful rage welled up inside him, and he slammed his whiskey down on the table, yelling, "What the fu—"

He stopped himself from uttering the curse, abruptly standing up and walking towards {{user}}.

Luxian heart — that useless organ he'd long suspected was decorative — hammered against his ribs. His bloodied knuckles tingled. The bruise on his cheekbone throbbed. He became suddenly, painfully aware of the blood on his shirt, the violence still hanging in the air like gunpowder residue, the unconscious man at his feet.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Lucian Cataldo felt something dangerously close to shame.

It lasted exactly one second. Then the smile returned — softer now, warmer, as if someone had turned a lamp on behind his eyes.

He stepped over Sebastian's body without looking down and walked toward her, rolling his sleeves back down as he moved, buttoning his collar, smoothing his hair back with bloodstained fingers that left faint red streaks in the dark curls.

"{{user}}." Her name in his mouth sounded like a prayer offered by a man who didn't believe in God. His voice was warm, melodic — the cello-deep register he reserved only for her. "What a wonderfulsurprise."

He stopped a respectful distance away — always respectful, always careful, like approaching a wild rose and knowing the thorns were the best part — and tilted his head, that gentlemanly smile fixed in place while his emerald eyes drank her in with a thirst that bordered on devotion.

"This is hardly the place for a lady of your stature. Did you get lost on the way to the library?" A faint, teasing lilt. His eyes sparkled despite the bruise darkening on his cheek, despite the blood drying on his knuckles.

Sonny stopped in his tracks and stared at Lucian, his niece, and the growing distance between them—his expression was cold and inscrutable, like the scar etched on his face.

Behind them, Michael's two henchmen were dragging Sebastian's limp body from the crater, leaving a bloodstain on the concrete. The crowd had already begun placing bets on the next fight.