The Cavelli compound pulsed with a warlike rhythm. Men marched the corridors with weapons strapped to their chests, their footsteps heavy, deliberate. Murmured orders carried in hushed tones, clipped by the weight of inevitability. Smoke from the lit cigars of seasoned soldiers curled through the air, mixing with the metallic tang of oiled firearms.
At the center of it all, Gabriel Cavelli loomed over the long oak war table, where maps and dossiers were pinned with brass tacks and red markings. The inked lines told the story of a city carved into pieces, claimed by blood.
Marco leaned over one corner, pointing to the jagged stretch of coastline. "Here. The south dock. Vitale's artery. If we strike it, we cripple their flow. Arms, shipments, money—all of it bleeds out."
Gabe's eyes narrowed. He had spent countless nights studying those maps, waiting for the moment when theory could shift into action. His hand tightened into a fist over the table.
"And Caruso?" His voice was a low growl, more threat than question.
Marco's gaze hardened. "She'll be there. Richard trusts her with his lifeblood. He knows her hold is stronger than chains."
The name alone sent a flicker of something sharp through Gabe. Veronica Caruso was more than just Vitale's deadly companion—she was a ghost from his past, the echo of temptation once indulged and buried. A reminder of how desire, when misplaced, could rot into venom.
Before Marco could add more, footsteps clicked against the marble floor. Steady. Familiar.
"You're planning a war without me?" Lottie's voice cut through the air, carrying both softness and steel.
The room quieted. Soldiers exchanged wary glances. Even Marco paused, eyes flicking toward her before returning to the map.
Gabe lifted his head slowly. His dark gaze locked on her, holding both exasperation and a hint of something else he dared not name.
"War isn't your burden," he said evenly, though the weight behind the words threatened to fracture.
But Lottie—Charlotte Rossi—didn't flinch. She stepped closer, the light catching on the strands of her dark hair, her chin lifted with quiet defiance. "Everything became my burden the moment I chose you."
The silence that followed pressed into the walls like another presence in the room. Some men shifted uneasily, others looked away, as though the intimacy of her words was too raw to bear witness to.
Gabe's jaw ticked. He dismissed the room with a glance. "Out. All of you."
Marco hesitated, but one look from Gabe sent him retreating with the others, their boots echoing until the door shut behind them.
Now it was only the two of them.
In the emptied war room, the maps stretched like battle scars across the table, and between them, the truth hung heavy.
Gabe moved. Two strides carried him to her, his hand rough against her cheek as he cupped her face, his forehead pressing against hers. "You don't belong in this," he whispered, voice frayed with both desperation and command. "Not the blood. Not the fire."
Her hand lifted, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. "I belong wherever you are."
The words sank into him, carving their way past walls he had spent years fortifying. For so long, he had kept her at the edge of his shadows, convinced that love and war could never co-exist. But with each moment, with every vow in her voice, she was dragging him deeper into the realization that maybe she wasn't made to be protected from fire—maybe she was fire herself.
"You'll stay here," he muttered, though it already felt like a lie. "While I end this."
A faint smile tugged at her lips, bold and heartbreaking. "You think Richard Vitale sees me as a bystander? He knows what I mean to you. Whether I'm here or at your side, he'll come for me. And you know it."
Gabe's chest constricted. She was right. Every enemy he had ever faced understood that love was both shield and blade.
His silence was his answer. And when he finally kissed her, it was raw, unrestrained—like a man tasting salvation and ruin in the same breath.
When he pulled back, their foreheads still touching, Lottie whispered, "Then let me stand with you."
And for the first time, Gabriel Cavelli did not deny her.
By nightfall, the Cavelli fleet moved. Black cars tore through the streets, headlights slicing the darkness like predatory eyes. Engines roared in unison, each vehicle carrying men whose hands were steady on their rifles, whose nerves hummed with adrenaline.
Inside the lead car, Gabe sat behind tinted glass, his gaze fixed forward, unreadable. Beside him, Lottie sat silent, her pulse quick but her expression unflinching.
"You stay close to me," Gabe said, his tone absolute.
She didn't answer. Instead, she reached across the leather seat, her hand brushing against his. Not to comfort him, but to anchor herself.
The convoy reached the docks. The air smelled of salt, rust, and something more acrid—the promise of violence. Skeletal cranes loomed in the moonlight, their shadows stretching across stacks of crates. Vitale's men swarmed the area, their movements precise, shipments being unloaded with military rhythm.
Marco's voice crackled through the radio. "Eyes open. They're ready for us."
Gabe's lips curved into a grim smile. "Let them be."
The first gunshot cracked the silence, sharp and merciless.
Then the night exploded.
Gunfire lit up the docks in a blaze of chaos. Bullets whined through the air, sparking against metal containers. Cavelli men surged forward, firing in tight bursts, pushing Vitale's soldiers back step by brutal step.
The scent of gunpowder burned through Lottie's lungs as she ducked behind a stack of crates. Fear pulsed in her veins, but it wasn't paralyzing—it sharpened her, steadied her.
Through the smoke, she spotted movement. A Vitale soldier, rifle raised, sighting Gabe from the shadows.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes darted down. A pistol lay inches away, dropped by a fallen man. She seized it, the weight strange in her grip, but her hands didn't shake.
She aimed.
One shot.
The soldier collapsed, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground.
Gabe spun at the sound, eyes cutting through the haze until they locked on her. Relief, fury, and something fierce flickered across his face.
"Stay low!" he shouted, even as a fleeting flicker of pride betrayed him.
But the battle didn't pause. Marco and his men pressed hard against Vitale's flank, pushing them toward the edge of the pier. Crates splintered under bullets, the wooden shards scattering across the ground. The night was a storm of noise and blood.
And then, like a vision conjured from hell, she appeared.
Veronica Caruso.
Her crimson silk dress glowed against the chaos, the bulletproof vest strapped over it a cruel marriage of elegance and brutality. She walked into the firefight with the confidence of a woman untouchable, pistol already raised, lips curled into a predator's smile.
"Gabriel!" she called, her voice sharp enough to cut through gunfire.
The battle faltered. Cavelli and Vitale men alike paused, drawn to the spectacle of her entrance.
She smiled, eyes gleaming with madness and hunger. "This ends with you."
The sight of her ignited something dark in Gabe. He raised his pistol, his body taut with years of unspoken history. "No," he said coldly. His voice carried above the clash, certain and final. "It ends with us."
Veronica's gaze flicked past him, to Lottie crouched behind the crates. Her smile widened. "So this is what makes you weak."
Lottie's fingers tightened around her pistol, her pulse hammering as her eyes locked on the femme fatale who carried equal parts allure and danger.
Veronica tilted her head, the madness in her smile deepening. "Let's see if she bleeds for you."
And with that, she fired.