Luca Pov
They say power is intoxicating. I say it's suffocating—until you learn to breathe in its air.
My name is Luca Volkov. In the underworld corridors that echo from Palermo to Paris, and from Prague to Panama, my name is spoken with either fear or reverence. Sometimes both. People know me as many things—don of the Iron Syndicate, ghost of justice, devil's shadow, The White Devil, Red Wolf —but titles don't interest me. Labels are for men who need to be told what they are. I already know.
I wasn't always this man. But I'll spare you the childhood sob story. This world doesn't care who hurt you unless you hurt it back harder. My past isn't a place I revisit for comfort—it's the forge where I was tempered.
Today, I'm still the King of Kings in this world of blood and silence. I don't run a gang. I don't belong to a cartel. I own syndicates like men own shirts. From Milan to Moscow, I sit at the top of a silent empire, where every whisper of gunfire and every vanishing soul is accounted for under my ledger.
And yet, I have rules.
I don't harm innocents. I don't touch women or children. And if you think those rules make me weak, I'll show you how wrong you are—by carving your sins into your skin.
Rapists. Human traffickers. War profiteers. Men who wear masks of civility while feeding on the weak. These men are not spared. They are erased.
Not because I'm noble.
But because someone has to be worse than them.
Someone has to scare the monsters into silence.
My enemies call me ruthless. My allies call me necessary. But I've always considered myself something far simpler: a knife sharpened by life, guided by a hand stronger than fate.
I stood in the heart of my Naples estate this morning—Villa Volkov, a gothic fortress carved into a cliff, overlooking a storm-churned sea. The sky was bruised with grey clouds, and the salt air bit like iron.
Stefano, my consigliere, briefed me while I sipped my espresso by the window.
"The Sicilians tried again," he said. "Four men. All dead."
I didn't blink. "Who cleaned up?"
"Alessandro. Disposed of the bodies. Left a message, per your instructions."
"Good." I turned, face blank. "Make sure the message includes a finger this time. They'll understand the symbolism."
Stefano nodded, ashen. He hated the violence, but respected the necessity. That's why I kept him close. A man who remembers what a soul is for can remind a man like me not to throw his away entirely.
I wore my usual—charcoal grey suit, matte black tie, polished Oxfords that whispered across marble like a second heartbeat. My hair was slicked back, beard trimmed to militant precision. Scars mapped my knuckles. Two silver rings gleamed on my fingers—both belonged to my sister. Again, not a story for today.
I walked through the hall toward the underground conference room, where twenty of my top lieutenants waited. The villa was silence and power incarnate—stone walls, oil paintings, no cameras. I trusted people more than machines. Machines could be hacked. People could be bought. And if not bought, they could be buried.
The meeting went as expected—shipping routes were stable, new arms deals in Serbia were progressing, and a corrupt senator in Rome was asking for more money to "forget" what he knew about a recent fire in Palermo. I approved half of it. Enough to keep him quiet, not enough to make him comfortable.
Midway through, my phone buzzed.
A secure line.
Only four people had this number.
It was Dmitri.
"Speak," I answered in Russian.
"There's been movement in the Mumbai dockyard," he says, clearing his throat. "Our man was right. Trafficking ring disguised under a diplomatic shipping label. The documents are Indian—Ministry of Rural Welfare, if you can believe it."
"Government protected?"
He shrugs. "Looks like it. But it's not clean. Children were among the shipment."
I feel my jaw tighten.
He continues, "And that's not all. One of the containers had girls. Young. Bruised. Branded."My fingers tighten around the glass of Barolo which I was holding, until I hear it crack. A drop of Barolo snakes down my wrist.
"What's the route to Delhi?"
"Via road. Once offloaded at the Mumbai docks, they'll be moved in covered trucks up the national highway. Should reach Delhi in about seventy-two hours."
"Who's behind it?"
"Name's Dragan Iyer. Exiled from Bulgaria. Took an Indian passport, operates from the shadows in Delhi's industrial sectors. Government turns a blind eye. He pays them enough."
I closed my eyes slowly.
That name.
They were on my radar years ago—vultures wrapped in the skin of charity. But I'd thought the leader dead after an assassination attempt funded by a rival clan.
Apparently, I was wrong.
"You're sure?" I asked.
"Beyond doubt."
And just like that, my morning changed.
Naples may be my throne, but the world is my battlefield. And no place, no matter how distant, is exempt from judgment.
"I'll handle it personally," I said.
There was a beat of silence on the line. "You're going to India?"
"I haven't been there in a long time," I murmured. "It's time I paid a visit."
I cut the call and turned to Stefano who was staring at me throughout the call. "Send word to Viko and Masha. I want eyes on Iyer. No contact yet.", I ordered him."Understood."
Seventy-two hours.
That's how long Dragan Iyer has before his world ends.
—
I boarded my private jet by evening.
The crew, handpicked and loyal to their bones, didn't ask questions. They never did. That's why they were still alive.
The plane—Callisto—was sleek, steel grey, with soundproofed interiors and a hidden armory below deck. I sat alone at the back, whiskey untouched beside me, reviewing the files Dmitri sent.
Pictures of missing children, most under the age of ten.
Bank transfers to shell companies traced to Iyer's aliases.
He was getting sloppy.
Greedy men always do.
As we flew over Europe, I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. Sleep never came, but I practiced the act for discipline.
The private jet touched down in Delhi's IGI Airport in silence.
No fanfare. No reception. Just the way I like it.
India has a rhythm that's different from the West. It breathes in heat, color, noise—and exhales chaos and opportunity. The air hits me like a wall—thick, humid, alive. Delhi smells of spice, exhaust, and a desperation that's both sacred and dangerous. I respect that.
We're picked up in a convoy of matte-black SUVs, modified with bulletproof glass and internal comm systems. My Delhi contact, a quiet Marathi man named Aditya, rides shotgun. He's ex-RAW. Clean record. Efficient. Deadly.
"Sir," he says with a respectful nod as I slide into the backseat.
"Status?"
"Dragan operates out of a textile warehouse in Naraina. Surveillance confirms armed guards. Looks like minor drug ops too—amphetamine derivatives, small scale. Distraction tactics. His real business is below."
"Trafficking?"
He nods. "And... something else."
"Speak."
"We intercepted a conversation. There's talk of an upcoming shipment—kids and young girls from Nepal. Scheduled in three days. He's hosting a 'gathering' for prospective buyers. Code word: 'Divine Selections.'
I close my eyes for a brief second. Something dark stirs inside me.
"How many guards?"
"Estimates put it at thirty. Some ex-military. All armed."
"And Dragan?"
Aditya hesitates. "He's... different. Reports say he doesn't flinch. Once ordered a man's eyes gouged out in front of his own child."
I nod. "Cowards often bark loudest."
We ride through the city in silence for a while. I gaze out the tinted window at the swirl of life outside—rickshaws and scooters zipping past, chai stalls steaming in the dusty heat, temples standing proud beside glass towers. Delhi is a contradiction—and I am comfortable in contradictions.
Eventually we reach the safe house—an unmarked villa in South Delhi, wrapped in high walls and overgrown bougainvillea. My room is sparse: one table, one chair, a bed, and an armory in the wardrobe.
I sit down, open my laptop, and begin writing names.
First: Dragan Iyer.
Then: every man on his payroll.
Then: the girls' names—if I can find them.
Because that's what this is. Not war. Not vengeance. This is accounting. One life taken per sin committed.
Let's see if his books balance.
—
That evening, I walk the alleys of Delhi.
Alone. Unarmed.
It's something I do in every city I enter—to breathe its truth without the armor of bodyguards. Cities whisper when you walk without fear.
Delhi whispers loudly.
I pass temples where incense burns thick into the sky. I pass lovers fighting and laughing in the same breath. I pass beggars with eyes too old for their faces. And I listen.
A small boy tugs at my coat. "Paise, bhaiya?"
I kneel and hand him a fifty-rupee note. He smiles and runs off.
That night, I sleep only two hours. Not because I'm restless. Because I don't need more.I dream of fire.
Of a girl screaming in a language I don't understand.
Of blood pooling beneath a glass table.
And of my father's voice—slurred, hateful, dying.
I wake up and smile.
Today, I go hunting.
—
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