Chapter 1 NEVER BECOMING DON

DALLA

Dalla Mulvaney was bored out of his mind. 

It was an unusual kind of boredom. 

The kind that made a man wonder if jumping off his thirtieth-floor balcony would finally make his heart race. 

He lay sprawled across the silk sheets of his penthouse, staring at the chandelier on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a skull—one of the oddly beautiful things in the penthouse. 

He was so engrossed in the design, so much that he forgot there was a woman on top of him. A woman whose name he’d already forgotten. She moved with desperation to cum, gripping the sheets tightly as she bounced endlessly on Dalla’s cock. 

She was beautiful, expensive, and utterly useless at distracting him.

“Fuck! Dalla I’m going to cum.” she cried. 

“I want your hands around my neck.” she moaned. 

“No.” 

He didn’t touch her. He didn't even look at her. He just smoked a cigarette, the embers glowing in the dim light, and waited for the act to be over so he could pay her to leave. 

This was his life. 

Indulging in everything wrong, to prove he was too damaged, and too reckless to inherit a throne and to rule the underworld.  

Smoking, Drinking, hanging out in the clubs he was supposed to supervise, getting high on the drugs they were supposed to export, all to prove he wasn't fit to be Don. 

“So fucking pathetic.” He exhaled as he anticipated the woman's cry of orgasm. 

The woman let out a sharp forced cry, collapsing against his chest.

Dalla didn’t move. He took a final drag of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke into the air. He crushed it beside him before finally turning to her. 

"Get out," he said, his tone flat. 

"Dalla baby,” she purred, tracing her red nails down his chest. “I thought—"

"No. Leave the key on the table." Dalla groaned, his voice now colder. 

She scrambled out of the bed, sensing the sudden chill in the room.

“I fucking hate this life.” He whispered, running his hands through his long hair. 

Dalla sat up immediately, reaching for the bottle of scotch on his nightstand, but he never made it.

Crack.

The bottle exploded in his hand. Shards of crystal sliced into his palm, but he didn't flinch. He had experienced way worse situations than this.

The glass in the balcony shattered immediately. A split second later, a heavy thud vibrated through the balcony accompanied by a series of gunshots. 

Dalla lay there naked and bleeding. As soon as the gunshots stopped, he put on his Robe, slowly walking against the walls towards the duffel bag. 

A black duffel bag lay on the marble tile, dropped from a silent drone that was already a speck in the night sky.

He unzipped it slowly with his bloodied hand.

Inside was a head.

The man’s eyes were wide, clouded with the shock of his own decapitation. 

Tucked into the man’s mouth was a note: 

“Just practicing my Art. Do you want to be my next model?” 

"Predictable," Dalla whispered, a smirk plastering on his lips.

An hour later, he was standing in his father’s study.

The Don, Silas Mulvaney, looked at the head on the desk and then at his son’s bored expression. Silas’s face darkened.

He had sent people to bring Dalla back immediately he heard the news. Dalla was reckless and never moved with Security.

His father has warned him endlessly to avoid ending up like his brother, who was supposed to be Don.

"You were nearly killed, and you showed up here smelling of a whore’s cheap perfume and scotch," Silas growled. 

"Liam would have had the rival's territory burning by now. But with You? You’d watch the world burn and probably ask for a bottle of scotch. 

"Maybe I like the heat," Dalla countered, leaning against the doorframe with another bottle of Scotch tightly in his hands. 

"You’re a liability. Your 'recklessness' has crossed the line into incompetence. You need Someone who won't be swayed by your tantrums or your bed-hopping."

“Good luck finding one.” Dalla scoffed. 

Silas gestured to the corner of the room. Dalla hadn't even noticed he wasn't alone.

A man stood there. He was tall, built like a weapon, and dressed in a suit that he was a sure cost more than a mid-sized car.

His face was cold, unreadable stone. He didn't move. He didn't look like he was breathing either. He just existed in the space like a threat.

"Tobias Slate," Silas said. "He is your new Personal Guard. He answers only to me. If you move, he moves. If you bleed, he stops it. And if you become a risk to this family..."

Silas didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to because Dalla already understood. 

Dalla walked up to Tobias, invading his personal space. He smelled strongly of black coffee and gun oil. 

Dalla leaned in closer, his eyes scanning the man's sharp jawline and the icy blue of his irises.

"I don't like shadows," Dalla whispered.

Tobias didn't blink. He didn't recoil. His voice, when it finally came, was a low, mechanical rasp that sent a shiver down Dalla’s spine.

"Thats what I'm here for Mr. Mulvaney. I won't end up like your last guard."

Dalla smirked, turning to leave. "We’ll see how long you last. My last guard quit because I was “too much to handle.”What makes you different?"

Tobias followed him out, his footsteps silent on the hardwood.

He didn't answer. He just watched Dalla with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.

They reached the elevator. Dalla pressed the button for the penthouse, feeling the man’s gaze on the back of his neck.

He turned around, pinning Tobias with a mocking look.

"Since you're going to be watching me sleep, Slate, you should know one thing."

Tobias raised an eyebrow, the only sign of life on his face.

"I’m a very light sleeper," Dalla said, stepping closer until their chests almost touched. "And I have a habit of doing things in my sleep. Are you okay with that Tobias?” he smirked, running his hands down Tobias's chest. 

Tobias’s eyes dropped to Dalla’s mouth for a fraction of a second—so fast Dalla almost missed it. Then, he looked back up, his expression hardening into something lethal.

The elevator doors opened. Dalla stepped out, but a sudden realization stopped him cold. He looked back at Tobias, who was already scanning the hallway for threats.

"Wait," Dalla said, his voice losing its mocking edge. "How did you know my last guard quit?

Tobias stepped out of the elevator, his shadow falling over Dalla.

"I didn't say he quit," Tobias whispered.

Dalla felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his back.

"Then where is he?"

Tobias leaned down, his lips brushing Dalla’s ear in a move that was purely dominant.

"He’s in a duffle bag, floating towards another City.