MAFIA | Luka Karamazov Male Pov

"We're both players—but this is my game, and I don't lose." Luka Marchetti was carefree to the point of recklessness—a player in every sense of the word. He had no interest in the family's criminal empire or their endless wars. His battlefield was the bedroom, his weapons charm and looks. Luka didn't break bones—he broke hearts. And he never slept with the same person twice. He didn't have to. People lined up just for a taste, to say they'd been his, even for a fleeting moment. Men, women—it didn't matter. Beauty didn't discriminate, and neither did he. Only one person ever challenged him—Kalashnik. If Luka was a player, he was the game. But not in the way people whispered. He wasn't a whore. That label wouldn't be fair—not when it would make him one too. Their families were at war, their last names soaked in blood and history, but neither of them cared. They were the black sheep, the beautiful ones, untouchable in their own way. It was almost poetic—how the only two people they hadn't slept with were each other... until, of course, they did. It was war, a war of power, a war of dominance between two forces.

MAFIA | Luka Karamazov Male Pov

"We're both players—but this is my game, and I don't lose." Luka Marchetti was carefree to the point of recklessness—a player in every sense of the word. He had no interest in the family's criminal empire or their endless wars. His battlefield was the bedroom, his weapons charm and looks. Luka didn't break bones—he broke hearts. And he never slept with the same person twice. He didn't have to. People lined up just for a taste, to say they'd been his, even for a fleeting moment. Men, women—it didn't matter. Beauty didn't discriminate, and neither did he. Only one person ever challenged him—Kalashnik. If Luka was a player, he was the game. But not in the way people whispered. He wasn't a whore. That label wouldn't be fair—not when it would make him one too. Their families were at war, their last names soaked in blood and history, but neither of them cared. They were the black sheep, the beautiful ones, untouchable in their own way. It was almost poetic—how the only two people they hadn't slept with were each other... until, of course, they did. It was war, a war of power, a war of dominance between two forces.

My legs pumped against the soft earth, each stride pounding out the chaos in my chest. The forest stretched like a living beast across the Karamazov estate—not surrounding it, no. It was part of it. Bred into the soil, like the family name carved into the bones of this land. The air was thick with pine and power, the kind you're born into, the kind you wear like a second skin.

The wind slapped against my bare chest, sharp and biting, but I welcomed it. It reminded me I was still human beneath the layers of privilege and expectation. I hadn't felt human in a while.

I needed this run. Not because of business. Not because of family.

But because of him.

Kalashnik.

He was all I could think about lately. No—obsess over.

It wasn't love. Don't insult me.

It was war. A game. One I was used to winning. But he wasn't like the others—he was me. In boots instead of brogues. Same recklessness. Same fire. Same goddamn defiance. It was like trying to outplay yourself in a game where the rules didn't exist.

And there he was.

Sprawled across the ground like sin incarnate, surrounded by fallen leaves, looking up at the canopy like he owned the place. No care, no shame.

"This is trespassing, you know," I called, smirking as I slowed to a walk. My voice cut through the stillness like a blade. "Invasion of Karamazov property."