PROLOGUE: Welcome to a new world

Rome, 1999

Blood splattered across the marble floor of the Toriela family's grand hall, its crimson droplets a stark contrast against the spotless white surface. The echo of the gunshot still hung in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of fresh blood and the lingering aroma of expensive cologne. 

Duncan Toriela stood motionless, his custom-made Italian suit bearing the stains of the violence that had just occurred. His expression remained impassive, betraying none of the turmoil that churned within him. Trust was a currency more valuable than gold in his world, and betrayal its most unforgivable counterfeit.

At his feet lay the body of Marco Rossini, his most trusted adviser for fifteen years – a traitor, as it had turned out. The man who had helped build the Toriela empire brick by bloody brick, had been selling information to the Milano families for months. The evidence had been irrefutable, and Duncan's judgment swift and final.

The ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticked away the seconds of heavy silence. No one in the room dared speak until Duncan did. His lieutenants stood at a respectful distance, faces carefully neutral, waiting for direction. The Toriela patriarch adjusted his gold cufflinks with practiced precision, as if merely attending to a minor inconvenience rather than standing over the corpse of his former confidant.

"Clean this up," he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. "No traces. His family receives the usual compensation. The official story is a heart attack while on vacation in Sicily." His dark eyes swept the room, landing on each man present. "Anyone who says differently answers to me personally."

The men nodded in understanding. Duncan's word was law, and his methods of enforcing that law were legendary across Italy's criminal landscape.

"And bring me my coat," he added, sliding his gun back into its holster. "I need some air. It's cold outside."

His driver opened the door of the black Mercedes, but Duncan waved him off. "I'll walk. Circle the block and meet me at the Hotel Excelsior in thirty minutes."

The crisp December air bit at his face as he strode down the cobblestone street, his mind heavy with thoughts of betrayal and loyalty. Fifteen years of friendship was erased in a single moment of truth. In his world, such decisions were necessary, but never easy. The weight of leadership pressed down on him with each step, a burden he had carried for decades and would continue to carry until his dying breath – or until a worthy successor emerged.

That was when he felt it – the slight pressure of something sharp against his back.

"Your wallet," a young voice demanded, trembling but determined.

Duncan almost laughed. After the night he'd had, being mugged by what sounded like a teenager was almost comical. He had just executed his best friend, and now fate had delivered this absurd footnote to the evening's tragedy.

He turned slowly, disregarding the makeshift weapon which stood intending to cause harm if the wielder knew how to use it. It was not hard to miss as it was a sharpened piece of metal that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster.

What he saw made him pause: a boy, who looked somewhere between the ages of 12 and 15, with fierce green eyes that burned with a desperation that couldn't mask their intelligence.

His face was dirt-streaked and gaunt, speaking of too many hardships for someone so young. His clothes hung from his thin frame, tattered and insufficient against Rome's winter chill. But the attempted robbery was not what had Duncan's attention, it was the way the boy held himself, proud, shoulders and head held high even in desperation, defiant even in fear.

"What's your name, boy?" Duncan asked calmly, making no move toward his wallet or his concealed weapon.

"Damien," the boy spat, pressing the metal shard harder. "And I said, your wallet," this time with more urgency in his voice.

The wind picked up, whistling through the narrow street and tousling the boy's unkempt dark hair. In that moment, something stirred in Duncan – recognition perhaps, or destiny.

One look into the young boy's eyes, Duncan saw something he recognized – a fire, a determination he was familiar with. He saw himself, decades earlier, before the empire, before the power, when hunger and pride were his only possessions.

The boy's hand trembled slightly, but his gaze remained steady. Duncan noted the small details – the calloused hands that spoke of hard work, the calculating gaze that assessed escape routes even while maintaining the threat, the way he positioned himself to appear larger than his slight frame actually was. This was no ordinary street urchin. This was a survivor.

"You have spirit, Damien," Duncan said, his breath forming clouds in the cold air. "But your technique needs work. If you're going to threaten a man, don't stand where he can easily disarm you."

Confusion flickered across the boy's face, quickly replaced by renewed determination. "I don't need advice. I need your money," he growled, though uncertainty had crept into his voice.

Duncan found himself asking the boy a question that would change both their lives forever. "How about dinner instead?"