#mafiaking

There was a smirk on his face as he already have seen what April did an say to her sister but Olivier knows April doesn’t know June is his Daughter even though April isn’t his own “So telling my daughter what she can and what not?” He said watching the two walking off each other their own way.

Olivier:

“They think I am merciful. They think I will allow their rebellions, their mistakes, their chaos. No. I will have a perfect city. I will have silence. And if I have to drag every last one of them through my Academy to achieve it, then so be it.”

He grips his cane tightly, the tip clicking against the floor.

He lights a cigarette, smirking to himself.

“People think I play games with love. They’re wrong. I play games with everything. Love, power, loyalty — all of it’s a gamble.”

He tosses a card onto the table, the Queen of Hearts staring back at him.

“Some nights I win big. Some nights I lose. But the house?” His grin sharpens. “The house always wins. And I am the house.”

His wives are somewhere behind the curtains, their voices and laughter soft, like music. Ace smiles — a real smile this time — and swirls the wine slowly.

“They say you can only love one person,” he says, his Italian accent smooth, warm. “Idiots. Why settle for one heart, one soul, when there are so many worth keeping?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Each of them is a piece of me. One’s fire. One’s quiet. One’s the knife at my throat — and I like it there.”

His grin sharpens, dangerous but amused.

“People think it’s greed. That I’m collecting trophies. But no. This is not greed. This is devotion. I love them all, in every way. And I’d burn this whole City to the ground before I gave any of them up.”

He raises the glass in a toast to the empty room.

At the head of the table sits Olivier Burton. Immaculate. Untouchable. His cream suit clings to him like a crown of fabric, platinum hair slicked back in aristocratic precision. A cane rests against his chair, polished to perfection, a silent weapon in waiting.

Before him, the banquet is flawless. Silver cutlery gleams like knives. Crystal goblets brim with red wine, catching the candlelight like blood. Every seat is filled… yet every chair is empty. A banquet of ghosts. A feast for no one but himself.

Olivier raises his goblet, his smile thin, eyes glacial. His voice fills the cavernous hall, smooth as silk, venom coiled within every syllable.

“Here’s to silence,” he begins, his tone deceptively calm. “Here’s to order. Here’s to the City already mine… bound and broken, breathing only because I allow it.”

He pauses, the wine trembling slightly in the candlelight. Then his voice deepens, sharper, colder:

“But silence is not enough. Order is not enough. I will not stop here. Every City, every street, every whisper beyond these walls — they will all belong to me. And if they resist…” He smirks, the kind of smirk that chills bone. “…then let war cleanse them. I will burn them, break them, reshape them, until they kneel.”

He lifts his glass higher, eyes glinting with something inhuman.

“Drink with me… or drown beneath me.”

At the heart of this cathedral of sin stands him. Ace Di Lucio. The man people whisper about, but never too loudly. His reputation has a way of breaking jaws.

He leans against the polished marble bar, one hand swirling a glass of red wine so slowly that it could be mistaken for blood. The stem of the glass shines between his fingers, elegant but lethal. On the counter beside him lies a pistol, polished to a mirror shine, placed deliberately in plain sight. Not as a threat—no, Ace doesn’t threaten. He promises.

His suit is cut sharp, black as midnight with a crimson silk shirt that glows in the neon haze. His dark hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He smirks with the ease of someone who knows he already owns the room.

A girl passes, her laughter too loud, her hand brushing too close to his arm. His smirk never falters, but his eyes slice sideways, and her smile vanishes as if someone had cut it away. She disappears behind the curtains.

Finally, Ace lifts the glass, eyes glinting beneath the chandeliers. His voice slides across the room, rich, smooth, dripping with venomous charm:

“Justice? Loyalty? Love?” He laughs, low and bitter. “All lies. Pretty little stories the City tells its children so they’ll sleep at night. But me? I don’t sleep.”

He sets the glass down, the click against marble echoing louder than the music.

“The only truths in Hell City are money… and power. And I never run out of either.”

He raises his glass, not to the crowd—they don’t deserve it—but to his own reflection in the bar’s mirror. To the man who doesn’t believe in anything but himself.

He pauses at one door, peering through the slot. A patient thrashes inside, bound in chains. Olivier’s lips curl into a smile.

“Chaos, despair, fear… all so loud. But I will quiet you. Silence is the only cure.”

He lifts his gloved hand to the lock. With a single motion, the door swings open, shadows spilling across his figure.