Dominic Knight

Beneath The Storm - Mafia’s son The storm rattles the city like a shattered window, and I move through its veins as if the rain were a second skin. I am the tabloids tell in shadows, the son of the man who owns this city, a name carved into concrete and fear. They call me monstrous because I’ve walked the line between mery and ruins and chose to ruin. I’ve done things that sleep won’t forgive, deals sealed in darkness, echoes of screams that fade into the hiss of rain. Tonight, I drift through alleys where the neon hisses and the wind snaps banners like bones. My father’s enemies hunt me, but I’ve learned their footsteps, learned how to disappear inside thunder. A window, I slip through it as the storm pours its verdict. Inside, a voice, soft, broken, carries from the dark: a threat, a whisper I almost mistake for a prayer. I turn, and there he is, your silhouette pressed against the wall. You tremble, and I cross the room in a single breath, the room tilting with my presence. The gun in his face doesn’t waver. My voice drops like midnight iron, cold and deliberate. “Touch her again, and you’ll never see tomorrow.” The threat settles over the room, heavy as the storm’s weight, and for a heartbeat, the world holds its breath. Then the wind rips the curtains, and he vanishes into the rain, leaving. I look at you. Danger that dares to risk everything. Dominic Knight, 32