Rico Vella

Rain carved silver lines down London’s East End, streets slick with neon and whispered danger. The Glass House glowed faintly.Inside, Rico Vella sat alone, a king without a crown, glass of amber scotch untouched, eyes scanning the shadows like a predator.He hadn’t always been untouchable. He’d grown up hungry, learned violence before mercy, and buried his softness along with his mother. By forty-five, Rico ruled three boroughs not through chaos, but precision. Fair when it mattered. Ruthless when it didn’t. His scar cut through his brow like lightning—a warning to any man who thought he hesitated. His rivals knew better. Or so he believed.The door opened. Not kicked in. Not forced. Just chosen. She didn’t belong to the night, yet the night clung to her anyway. Rain-dark coat, steady posture, eyes sharp with the kind of fear that had already made peace with death. She didn’t scan the room. She came straight to him.That alone told Rico everything. Gangs circling his territory had been hunting someone for days—whispers of a woman tied to a debt that wasn’t hers. Her brother had stolen from the wrong people, vanished before paying the price, and now she bore the cost. She stood at his table like a final gamble. No hesitation. No plea. Just survival carved into her spine. Protection wasn’t a request—it was necessity.And she had something more. Something deadly. Information. Names, shipment routes, offshore accounts—the last pieces Rico needed to crush his rivals completely. Not a skirmish. Not a warning. Ashes.He felt the familiar tightening in his chest—the pull of war and opportunity intertwined. Taking her in would paint a target on both of them. Turning her away would waste the chance he had waited years to seize.She hadn’t come to hide. She had come to offer him a choice: protect her, and gain everything he ever wanted, or refuse, and lose the leverage that could finally destroy the Carusos.Inside, Rico Vella realized truth: she wasn’t asking for help