Retaliation
The morning broke red.
Lucian stood on the balcony, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand, staring at the rising sun bleeding across Naples. His city. His kingdom. His warzone.
The phone on his desk had rung five times in the last hour, each call reporting another loss, another scar carved into his empire overnight. He didn't need to answer the sixth. Alessandro burst into the room before the first ring faded.
"Boss," he said sharply, his face pale beneath the grime of sleepless hours. "It's bad. Dante hit back."
Lucian turned slowly, his gaze heavy. "Where?"
"Everywhere."
---
The reports came in like hammer blows.
One of the Moretti safehouses burned to the ground, six men dead inside before they could crawl out of the flames. Two lieutenants ambushed in the streets, their bodies dumped in the harbor as a message. A convoy carrying weapons intercepted on the outskirts of the city—emptied, torched, and left smoldering in the dirt.
And worst of all—
"Salvatore is missing," Alessandro finished grimly.
Lucian's glass cracked in his hand. Whiskey spilled across the floor, sharp shards glittering like blood. "What did you say?"
Alessandro's jaw tightened. "They took him. We found the car abandoned, riddled with bullets. No body. Just a message scrawled on the hood."
He tossed a crumpled photo on the desk. Lucian picked it up, his jaw tightening. In thick red paint, three words screamed from the image:
YOU ARE NEXT.
Lucian's knuckles went white. His oldest friend. His most loyal soldier. Gone.
"Eliminate every weak link," Lucian said darkly, his voice like a noose tightening. "Double security at the mansion. No one goes in or out without my order. And find Salvatore."
"Yes, Boss." Alessandro hesitated. "And Elena?"
Lucian's eyes flicked toward the door, where Elena's shadow lingered in the hall. For a moment, the Devil's mask cracked, revealing something rawer. Fear.
"She stays inside," he said, softer. "Guard her with your lives."
---
Downstairs, Elena cradled Isabella in her lap, listening to the muffled chaos vibrating through the mansion walls. The men rushed like shadows, their faces hard, their voices low. She didn't need to hear the details to know things had gone from bad to worse.
When Lucian entered, she rose quickly, searching his face. He was covered in another man's blood again. But this time, it wasn't victory in his eyes. It was something darker.
"What happened?" she whispered.
Lucian brushed past her, pouring another drink, downing it in one swallow. "Dante retaliated. He's cutting through my empire piece by piece."
Her heart clenched. "And Salvatore?"
The silence told her everything.
She stepped closer, touching his arm. "Lucian, stop this. Please. If you keep tearing each other apart, there won't be anything left to fight for. Not Naples. Not us."
He turned suddenly, his eyes blazing. "If I stop, Elena, Dante wins. And if Dante wins, you and Isabella die. Do you understand that?"
She flinched, her breath catching. He softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear.
"I'm doing this for you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "For her. I'd rather be a monster in this world than watch either of you buried in it."
Her lips trembled. She wanted to believe him. But deep down, she feared he wasn't fighting for them anymore—he was fighting because he didn't know how to stop.
---
By evening, the war bled into their very doorstep.
Gunfire erupted outside the mansion gates, sharp cracks that echoed through the marble halls. Isabella screamed, clinging to Elena as the guards rushed to their posts.
"Elena, get her below!" Lucian barked, shoving a pistol into her trembling hands. "Now!"
She hesitated, her eyes wide. "Lucian—"
He kissed her hard, fierce and desperate, the taste of whiskey and blood burning against her lips. "Go. Keep her safe. I'll come back."
Then he was gone, charging into the night like a man with nothing left to lose.
---
The attack was swift and brutal.
Dozens of Dante's men stormed the gates, masked and armed, bullets tearing into stone walls, grenades rattling the earth. The Moretti guards fought back, but it was chaos, blood splattering across the cobblestones as bodies fell on both sides.
Lucian moved like a shadow among them, a predator unleashed. Every shot he fired was lethal. Every strike was vengeance. He fought not just for power but for the woman and child caged inside the walls behind him.
"Hold the line!" he roared, dragging Alessandro back from the spray of bullets. "They don't get past this gate!"
But Dante's men kept coming, endless, relentless.
And then—silence.
A voice cut through the smoke, deep and mocking.
"Moretti!"
Lucian froze.
Through the haze, a tall figure emerged, his coat black as night, his smile wicked. Not Dante—but his second-in-command, a man Lucian recognized all too well.
"Carlo," Lucian spat, his voice like venom.
The traitor grinned. "Surprised to see me alive?"
Elena, watching from the panic room screen, felt her blood run cold. Carlo. Matteo's killer. The man they thought Lucian had executed months ago.
But he was here. And very much alive.
Carlo raised his gun, eyes gleaming. "Dante sends his regards. And a promise. Next time, it won't be your empire we burn—it'll be your family."
Before Lucian could answer, Carlo fired.