Sweet Hatred
Chapter 102: Kael Roman - ii

Chapter 102: Kael Roman - ii

I stepped out of the car like I owned every breath in the city. The Bellucci club stood lazy ahead—low lights, velvet shadows, and the kind of polished glamour that tried too hard to feel dangerous.

Eyes snapped to me the moment I crossed the threshold. Then just as quickly, they dropped. One by one.

My coat clung to me like a second skin—tailored, sharp, calculated. Not a thread out of place. I moved through the entry like a storm in silk, slow and sure, my steps a language they all understood: don’t.

Every camera in the room got clocked. Every exit. Every twitch in the corner of my eye. No one spoke.

I didn’t need them to. They led me through a hallway that reeked of expensive cigars and desperation. The room Luca chose sat at the end, dressed in money—velvet drapes, mahogany walls, chandeliers trying too hard to look effortless.

Old wealth pretending it still had teeth.

There was champagne on the table. Gold-rimmed flutes. I didn’t touch it. Didn’t sit. Just stood for a second, letting the place speak for itself.

It said: Please be impressed.

I wasn’t.

Then I took my seat at the far end, back to the wall, clear view of the entrance. The chair was plush. I made it feel like a throne.

He made me wait. Of course he did.

When Luca Bellandi finally strolled in, he brought noise with him—thick cologne, the clink of too many rings, and that obnoxious laugh like he’d just told the best joke in the world to himself.

"Roman Jr," he greeted me like we weren’t aiming for each other’s throat. "Son. It’s been too long."

I didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just watched him.

He was dressed like a headline—diamond cufflinks, dark red suit, open collar. Flashy. Loud. In love with his own reflection. He poured himself a glass of the champagne I wouldn’t touch and took the seat opposite me like he owned the table.

Theatrics. I didn’t say a word. I’d let him fill the space with his voice and ego.

I was already counting the cracks in his armor. He didn’t ease into it. Just leaned back like we were old friends catching up, one arm slung over the chair, gold watch flashing every time he moved.

"You know," he said, swirling his drink like he thought it made him clever, "I never pictured the mighty dragon would tuck its tail and cower behind his son."

I didn’t bother replying. I just watched. Watched the corner of his mouth twitch. Watched his eyes flinch away from mine like they knew better. Watched him try to summon menace and fall pathetically short.

He talked like he was in control. But every inch of him knew—I was the real threat in the room.

"Your father and I built a lot of bridges together. Blood, business, brotherhood. That kind of history—it means something."

I continued to let him talk.

"Your old man," he went on, "he owes me. Big. I covered him when things got ugly in Naples, remember that?"

I didn’t remember. I was nothing but a rebellious teenager at that time my father was building his empire on nothing but skulls. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have acknowledged it.

"So I was thinking..." He paused, smiling. Like he expected gratitude. "Maybe it’s time we honor that legacy. You give me fifty percent of Roman Maritime. Not the front companies. The real arm. We run it together."

He took a sip. Watched me.

"Call it a partnership."

His words were dressed like peace, but I heard the blade in them. I still didn’t speak. I let him sweat in his own perfume instead.

He set his glass down with a faint clink, fingers drumming once against the crystal. Then he leaned forward, tone dropping into something mock-confidential.

"Of course... I could’ve just come to collect the way my father would’ve in his days."

I didn’t move.

"But I figured," he continued, lips curving around the threat like a man savoring dessert, "you wouldn’t want certain things resurfacing. Like what really happened in Palermo, right after the fire at the western dockyards. Funny timing, wasn’t it?"

He gave me a look. Testing. Fishing. He didn’t have it—just smoke.

"You were the one handling that mess, no? Your father made it real clear afterward that your methods were... unconventional. Risky. But then again, maybe he never told you who cleaned it up for you."

He smiled wider. "That was us. The Bellandis."

A pause. A breath. He wanted a twitch. A blink. Something. I stared right through him. He was bluffing. And even if he wasn’t—I’d already buried worse.

Palermo, Years Ago,

They pulled me out of a barracks in the middle of fucking nowhere. Told me I had a "personal emergency." That’s what they called it—a fire at the roman dockyards, ten dead, shipments destroyed, whispers of betrayal.

I was two years deep into pretending I was something other than my father’s son. Thought I could sweat the roman out of me. Thought discipline could fix blood.

They sent a private jet. No names. Just a file. My name was still stamped on the folder in block letters. Roman, Kael. Not "Private." Not "Soldier." Just Roman. Like I’d never left.

I landed in Palermo, boots hitting the tarmac like the past had clawed its way to me. The air smelled like smoke and sea rot.

The Western dockyards were still burning when I arrived.

Bodies floated near the edges—bloated, half-charred, stripped of everything but the Roman seal inked on their jackets. Men loyal to my father.

"Message from the Bellandis," one of our men muttered. "They handled it for us."

Bullshit.

I saw the truth. Saw it in the way the flames curved too cleanly, like they were controlled. How only our containers were targeted. How the Bellandis just happened to be the first on site, offering cleanup and favors.

I didn’t ask questions. I picked up a crowbar and cracked open the shipping manifest with my own hands. I tracked the leak. I found the traitor.

It was a Roman man. One of ours. Feeding intel to a third party. He’d planned to run that night. I dragged him into the fire myself. Didn’t flinch when his screams split open the night.

The Bellandis came later. Smiling. Pretending they hadn’t known. Luca himself had offered me a drink that night. Said I had "potential." Said I reminded him of someone.

I didn’t say a word.

I flew back the next day. Back to camp, to Ivan, pretending I wasn’t a monster in the making. My father never said thank you. Just looked at me like I’d finally done one thing right. That’s when I stopped pretending the army made me clean. Because in the end? I was always going to burn for the Romans.

Silence stretched between us, thick as smoke. Luca was watching me, waiting for something—an eye twitch, a shift in breath, a crack in the calm. He was hunting for a flinch.

He didn’t get one.

I reached for the untouched glass of champagne, not to drink—just to set it down. Slow. Deliberate. The crystal tapped against the marble table with a soft, final click.

Then I looked him in the eye.

My voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It sliced through the gold-drenched air like a scalpel. "Valerio Moretti. Does that name ring a bell?"

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