The place echoed with the sound of gunfire... brief, sharp, and filled with the fury of vengeance.
Luca Morano's boots thudded heavily against the marble as he walked toward Marcelo, his face carved in ice and thunder.
Smoke coiled around them like a dark serpent, swallowing the screams of fallen men.
Marcelo tried to shoot again.
The bullets ricocheted off Luca's body, hitting the ground with a sound like rusted coins falling onto stone.
Luca didn't even flinch.
When he reached Marcelo, he grabbed him by the neck, his fingers digging in like iron hooks.
Marcelo gasped, choking, his gun clattering from his trembling hand.
Luca's voice was low, deadly calm, the kind that carried more fear than shouting ever could. "For years," he said, his breath cold against Marcelo's ear, "I swore I had would never spill blood. But you…" he tightened his grip, Marcelo's feet scraping against the ground, "…your blood is too filthy to stain my hands."
