The sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood. The emergency room lights were harsh, unforgiving, illuminating every bruise, every cut. Vinny lay on a stretcher, bandages wrapping his side where a bullet had ripped through muscle and skin. The beeping monitors measured his heartbeat, each pulse a painful reminder of what had been lost tonight.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—deliberate, heavy. Then the metallic roar of engines shook the building. Outside, Range Rovers and black SUVs pulled up, sleek and ominous. Security cameras caught the silhouettes of men stepping out, all dressed in tailored black coats, their presence enough to make even the most seasoned hospital staff pause.
Marco Vitale strode in, dark coat over sharp shoulders with French beard, eyes like burning coals. His hair was slicked back, jaw tight. Behind him, three of his most trusted men flanked the doorway, hands resting casually near their holsters.
The nurses froze as Marco approached Vinny's bed. One whispered, almost breathless, "That… that's Mr. Vitale?"
Vinny's gaze was blurry, but recognition sparked. His lips parted, weak but steady.
"Marco… Boss..."
Marco leaned against the edge of the bed, voice low, calm, yet cutting through the room like a blade.
"You should have quit a long time ago, Vinny. Life… this job… it doesn't forgive mistakes. Or care about loyalty."
Vinny's teeth clenched, a hand trembling as he tried to sit up. "I… I didn't see it coming. It was just… a street corner, wrong place, wrong time. I… "
The beeping machines seemed louder, each monitor echoing Marco's words in the sterile room. Vinny's chest rose and fell with labored breaths, pain sharp, but the fire in his eyes matched Marco's cold intensity.
A nurse dared to step closer, holding an IV bag. "Sir… you need to stay calm, or—"
Marco's glance cut through her words. "She stays calm. He recovers. I'll hunt."
Vinny managed a weak chuckle, a grim smile. "Jenna always wanted to study in oxford and make my old man proud. I am not sure about myself, but i enjoy here with these beautiful ladies..." His smile fades as he say... ",Make sure to make them pay before my family's funeral. "
Marco smiled.
Outside, the Range Rovers gleamed under the streetlights, engines humming like predatory beasts, waiting to tear through the city. Marco's men moved silently, scanning every corridor and corner as if they already knew the streets would whisper their arrival.
Vinny's hand trembled slightly as Marco straightened and gave a final nod.
"Rest now. I promise you, Vinny… it's only the beginning."
The room felt smaller after Marco left, shadows stretching over the bed. The quiet hum of the hospital returned, but Vinny knew—it wasn't peace. It was the calm before the storm, the city's heartbeat echoing a warning of vengeance yet to come.
.......................
In a cold morning of Della Rossa,
The city was quiet in the early hours, but Della Rossa never truly slept.
In a cramped café tucked into the Old Town, two men in grey suits sat at a corner table, cups of black coffee steaming between them.
"So… Vinny's family," one muttered, voice low. "The hits… it's messy. Too fast, too clean."
"Yeah," the other replied, tracing a finger along the condensation on his cup. "But here's something odd. Esposito Media… one of their reporters named Isabella got killed yesterday. Lives right on that street. Nobody knows who did it. And… silence. Dead quiet from Dante."
Former whispered, "Dante is one of the biggest mafias here... Of course he won't say anything on this even if he is her employer. In past, there are many cases of people being vanished related to Esposito family."
"See this?" Latter whispered, showing the screen. "Reporter's body… no one's claiming it. Even the police? They're shrugging. But it's Esposito turf. Dante hasn't said a word."
The former shook his head. "Something's brewing. Could be connected to Vinny. Could be… something else. We need to tell Gio. Not Marco yet. He'll explode."
⸻
Giovanni's Headquarters
The Vitale Estate's underground HQ smelled faintly of gun oil and aged leather, a stark contrast to the marble floors above. Giovanni "Gio" Moretti a relatively old man with white hair and beard wearing white shirt and navy blue pants, wearing Rolex watch sat behind a heavy oak desk, flicking through reports and phone calls. The operatives filed in, careful not to let their voices carry.
"Gio," one began, "we've checked the street where Vinny's family was attacked. Something else happened—reporter from Esposito Media Group… killed yesterday. Lives on that block. Nobody knows who did it, and the Esposito family is… strangely silent."
Gio leaned back, fingers steepled, his eyes narrowing. "Silence doesn't mean innocence. Esposito's playing quiet, waiting."
Another added, "We can't connect it directly to the attack on Vinny's family yet. No proofs."
Gio nodded slowly. "Exactly. Do not tell Marco yet. Not until we know. He acts first and asks questions later… and I won't have him burning the city down on assumptions."
A flickering monitor showed street cameras of Old Town, the alleys dark and empty. The tension in the room was almost palpable.
Gio's voice cut through the shadows, calm but steel-edged:
"We eill proceed carefully. Watch. Listen. And wait. When the time comes… we act. But no one—no one—gets ahead of the family without proof."
The operatives filed out silently, slipping into the streets, ghosts in the night. Outside, Della Rossa pulsed with secrets, whispers, and the subtle hum of danger, each alley holding a fragment of the truth, and each shadow a question yet unanswered.