Threads of a Gilded Clock

Prologue: Clock Strikes Eighteen

Or fear.

"I didn't ask for all this," Lucas said, trying to keep his tone neutral, as he glanced around the overly luxurious room as he looked for a new escape.

His father chuckled, placing a heavy hand on Lucas's shoulder. "You didn't have to. It was always meant to be yours. Tonight, you become a man."

Lucas glanced around again, he recognized some of the guests, politicians, business magnates, and dons from other families, each shaking hands with guarded smiles. Others were strangers, their eyes too calculating, their smiles too tight. All of them watching him.

"Enjoy yourself," his father said. "Tonight is your threshold."

The quartet shifted into a livelier waltz. Couples took to the floor. Laughter echoed. Lucas wandered through the crowd, accepting well-wishes and feigned affection. A cousin he barely knew kissed both his cheeks. An ambassador handed him a gold pen. A senator gave him a vintage watch. Each gift more extravagant than the last. Each one laced with obligation.

He found brief comfort as he slipped out into the garden. Under the stars, the air was cooler, quieter. He leaned against a marble railing, staring out over the dark hedges and fountains below.

His peace didn't last long.

A hand touched his arm.

"Come," his father said. "The real celebration begins now."

Lucas followed him back inside, past the ballroom and down a hallway most guests never saw. Past portraits of stern-faced ancestors and locked doors. Then, a narrow staircase that spiraled downward, lit only by flickering wall sconces.

"Where are we going?" Lucas asked.

"To meet your future."

The cellar was cold and smelled of iron. Its stone walls were bare, save for rusted hooks and shadows. In the center of the room sat a single chair, bolted to the floor. And in it, a man slumped forward, wrists zip-tied to the arms, head lolled.

Lucas stopped dead.

The man twitched.

Mumbled something unintelligible.

His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut. His lip split. His suit-or what remained of it-hung in bloodied shreds. His hair, matted with sweat and filth, clung to his forehead. But the voice-the slight rasp under the incoherence-was familiar.

Lucas stepped forward, heart pounding.

"Jerek?"

The man stirred.

Slowly, his good eye opened.

Recognition sparked.

Lucas staggered back.

Jerek had been like an older brother. A mentor within the Moretti ranks. Cool-headed. Precise. He'd taught Lucas how to read body language, how to pick a lock, how to hide a gun in plain sight. He was loyal.

Wasn't he?

Don Valentino stepped forward.

"He was Europol. Undercover. For three years. Fed them everything. Names. Routes. Passwords. Because of him, we lost a shipment worth seven million euros. Your uncle is in prison because of his report."

Lucas's mouth went dry.

"No..."

"Yes."

Jerek groaned.

"I don't want this," Lucas whispered.

"No one does," his father said. "But it's what the family requires. He knows things. He won't talk to us anymore. But you, he liked you. He trusted you. Maybe he'll talk to you."

Lucas turned to him slowly, trying to keep his composure. "You want me to torture him."

"I want you to protect us," his father snapped, his eyes sharp as they bore into Lucas. "The Moretti blood runs in your veins. This is your test. You leave now, and everything you've been given goes up in smoke. You stay, and you become a man worthy of our name."

Jerek coughed. Blood dribbled down his chin.

Lucas hesitated. He looked at the tray.

Scalpels. Pliers. A blowtorch. Ice picks.

He closed his eyes.

He picked up the knife.

He walked forward.

Jerek blinked. "Don't become him...there's...there's still time," he croaked.

Lucas flinched.

"You were better..." Jerek whispered.

The first cut was shallow.

The second wasn't.

Lucas asked questions. Names. Locations. Contacts. Jerek didn't answer.

Not at first.

But pain is persuasive.

Eventually, Jerek broke.

When it was over, Lucas stood frozen, staring at his hands. His knuckles were bruised. His palms sticky. Blood painted his skin like war paint.

His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow gasps. The room spun.

Behind him, his father clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome to the family, figlio mio."

Lucas didn't move.

Jerek was still alive.

But Lucas knew he would never forget the way he screamed.

And somewhere inside him, something broke.

Time kept ticking.

But Lucas Moretti would never be the same.