Blood on the Docks
The sea was restless that night, black waves breaking against the rusted steel of the shipping docks. Floodlights flickered across rows of containers, casting long shadows where men worked hurriedly, loading crates onto waiting trucks. The air smelled of salt, oil, and the faint trace of contraband—Dante Marino's empire in motion.
From the rooftop of a warehouse across the water, Lucian watched with the stillness of a predator. His men crouched beside him, armed and waiting, their breaths visible in the cold night air. Matteo adjusted the strap of his rifle, his eyes sharp.
"They're running three trucks," Matteo murmured. "Heavy guards. Word is it's weapons—probably going south."
Lucian's jaw tightened. "Burn them. Every last one. Dante needs to know his reach ends tonight."
A nod rippled through the men.
Lucian raised his hand, signaling silence. For a moment, the only sound was the ocean's pulse. Then, with a swift motion, he dropped his hand.
Chaos erupted.
Snipers hidden in the shadows opened fire, dropping two of Dante's guards before they could even react. Shouts rang out, orders scrambled, guns drawn. Lucian moved first, sliding down the ladder and hitting the ground with the grace of a wolf. His pistol barked twice, two more men falling before they realized death had already come.
Matteo's squad fanned out, bullets cracking against steel. The trucks' engines roared to life in a desperate attempt to flee, but Lucian was already there. He planted himself in the path of the first truck, gun raised, his eyes lit with fury.
The driver hesitated for a fatal second. Lucian fired through the windshield, glass exploding outward. The truck swerved, crashing into a stack of containers with a screech of tearing metal. Flames licked at the wreckage as Lucian tossed a grenade beneath the second truck. The blast shook the ground, fire blooming against the night sky.
"Move!" Lucian barked. His men surged forward, methodical and merciless. Within minutes, Dante's shipment was nothing but smoke and ash. Bodies littered the dock, some groaning, most still.
Matteo approached Lucian, wiping blood from his brow. "It's done, boss. We've gutted his night."
Lucian scanned the carnage, his expression unreadable. For anyone else, this would be victory. For him, it was only the beginning. "Send the survivors back to him," he ordered coldly. "Let them crawl home and tell Dante exactly who burned his empire."
Matteo hesitated. "And if Dante strikes back harder?"
Lucian's lips curved into something dangerous. "Then I'll give him something he's never had before—fear."
---
Back at the mansion, Elena sat in Isabella's room, watching her daughter sleep. The child's breaths came steady now, her small body finally at peace after the nightmare of the previous night. Elena brushed a strand of hair from her face and exhaled, though the tension in her chest never loosened.
The grandfather clock in the hall ticked toward midnight. Lucian still wasn't home.
She rose, pacing the length of the room. The walls felt too close, the silence too loud. Every sound outside made her flinch. She tried to remind herself that Lucian was a man of control, of precision, that he always came back. But tonight felt different. Tonight, he was fire incarnate, and fire consumed recklessly.
When the soft knock came at the door, she stiffened.
"Elena?" Matteo's voice, low, respectful.
She opened the door, relief fading quickly when she saw the blood smeared across his sleeve. "Where's Lucian?"
"He's fine," Matteo assured, though his eyes were weary. "We hit Dante's docks tonight. Sent his empire up in flames. But…" He hesitated. "The boss won't stop here. He means to bring Marino down completely. And when he's in this state…"
Elena's throat tightened. "He's not thinking clearly."
Matteo shook his head. "No, Elena. He's thinking very clearly. That's the problem."
---
Lucian returned just before dawn. Elena was waiting for him in the foyer, arms crossed, her nightgown pale against the dark marble. His shirt was torn, stained with soot and blood, his eyes glittering with triumph and something darker.
"You should be sleeping," he said gruffly, though the edge of exhaustion dragged at his voice.
"And you should be here," she shot back. "With us. With Isabella. Instead, you're out there—" Her voice cracked. "Do you even realize how close you are to losing yourself?"
Lucian closed the distance between them in two strides, his hand gripping her waist. His touch was firm, almost desperate. "I know exactly what I'm doing. Every move. Every strike. Dante tried to take you from me. That means he dies. There's nothing else."
Elena searched his face, but what she found there terrified her. He wasn't just waging war. He was feeding something inside himself, something that needed blood to breathe.
"Lucian," she whispered, her hand against his chest. "Don't make Isabella grow up knowing her father is only fire and destruction. Don't let her lose you, too."
His jaw clenched. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw the man beneath the Don—the man who had held their daughter last night as if she were the only thing keeping him alive. But then it was gone, replaced by steel.
"I'll protect you," he said, finality in his tone. "Even if it means burning the world."
He kissed her hard, silencing her protest, before pulling away and disappearing down the hall toward his office.
Elena stood frozen, tears burning her eyes. She realized with a hollow ache that she wasn't just fighting Dante Marino. She was fighting the fire inside Lucian Moretti—and that battle might cost them all.
---
The news spread by morning. Dante's docks were gone, his shipments reduced to ash. Retaliation was inevitable. And somewhere in the city, Dante Marino sat in the shadows, his fury growing, plotting the next strike.
Lucian had drawn first blood.
But the war had only just begun.