The Cavelli estate had never been so quiet.
The halls, usually alive with the hum of activity—men on rotation, phones buzzing with coded chatter, Marco's voice barking orders—were now thick with silence, the kind that seeped into the bones. Blood still clung to the marble floor near the side entrance where injured men had been dragged inside after the docks ambush. The smell of gunpowder lingered faintly, carried in on their clothes.
Gabe stood at the window of his office, jaw tight, one hand gripping the glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. The city stretched beyond him, lights burning across the skyline like a thousand unblinking eyes. He hated those lights tonight. Too bright, too indifferent.
Behind him, Marco leaned against the doorframe, shirt stained with someone else's blood, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes were shadowed, but steady.
"They hit harder than we thought," Marco said at last, breaking the silence. "Vitale's not starving. He's feeding. Somewhere, he's feeding."
Gabe's jaw flexed. "We cut three of his routes this month. He should be crippled."
"Then he's got another artery we don't see." Marco exhaled smoke, the curl of it ghosting through the dim office light. "And he's making damn sure we bleed faster than he does."
The whiskey glass finally met Gabe's lips. He drank hard, the burn searing down his throat. But it didn't touch the fire inside.
A soft knock came at the door. Before either man could answer, it cracked open, and Lottie stepped inside.
She wore a simple sweater now, her hair pulled back, but nothing could hide the tension vibrating in her. Her eyes, rimmed red from exhaustion, cut between the two men before settling on Gabe.
"You didn't tell me it would be like that," she said.
Her voice wasn't loud. But it cut.
Gabe set the glass down, slow and deliberate. "What exactly?"
"The docks." Her fists curled at her sides. "The gunfire. The bodies. The—" She stopped, swallowed, forced the words through tight lips. "You brought me there knowing it would be war."
Gabe's silence stretched. Marco shifted, grinding the cigarette out against the doorframe. "He didn't bring you," Marco said, his voice rough but oddly protective. "You followed."
Her glare snapped to him. "Don't defend him."
Gabe turned then, the weight of his gaze pinning her in place. "I told you it wasn't safe," he said evenly. "And you went anyway. This is the cost, Charlotte. Daniel knew it. I know it. You can't stand in this world and not expect blood to stain your shoes."
Her throat worked, fury flashing across her features. "And you think I should just get used to it?"
"No." His voice dropped, hard enough to still her. "I think you should understand it. Because the moment you don't, the moment you let yourself believe it's something else—that's when you die."
The silence that followed was a taut wire, stretched too tight.
Marco pushed off the wall. "I'll check on the men," he muttered, slipping out and leaving the two of them alone.
The air thickened. Lottie moved further into the room, closer to Gabe, though every step seemed torn from her. "You talk like it's inevitable," she said. "Like we're all just waiting to fall into a grave."
His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes—something raw, buried deep. Then it was gone, hidden behind steel. "It is inevitable. The question isn't if, Charlotte. It's when. And how many you take with you before you go."
Her breath caught, sharp in her chest. She hated him then. Hated him for his certainty, his coldness, the way he spoke of death like an accountant tallying debts. And yet—
And yet she couldn't look away.
"You really believe that?" she whispered.
"I've buried enough men to know."
The weight of those words pressed between them. For a long moment, the only sound was the storm beyond the windows, thunder rolling across the city like a drumbeat.
Then, softer, trembling, she said: "Daniel believed in you."
His eyes closed briefly, lashes casting shadows across his cheek. When they opened again, they were fire and stone. "Daniel believed in too much."
Her chest tightened, grief clawing up her throat. She wanted to scream at him, to demand warmth, humanity, anything but the wall he kept between them. Instead, she whispered the truth that had haunted her since the cemetery.
"You're all I have left."
The words silenced him. His breath stilled, his shoulders rigid. For a moment, she thought he might reach for her—that his hand might finally break its cage and touch hers. But he didn't. He only looked at her, as if her presence was both a wound and a lifeline.
Then he turned away, his voice hard again. "Get some rest. This isn't over."
She stared at his back, fury and something far more dangerous burning inside her. Then she left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Later that night, Marco returned. Gabe was still at the desk, maps and reports spread before him.
"The men are restless," Marco said. "They're scared. They won't say it to your face, but they're bleeding faith. Vitale keeps hitting us, and all they see is us reacting. They want a strike, Gabe. Something big."
Gabe's gaze fixed on the map, where Vitale's routes spiderwebbed across the city. His hand hovered over the docks, then shifted inland, toward one of the few supply chains Vitale hadn't touched yet.
"Then we give them one," he said.
Marco frowned. "You're thinking of burning him out?"
"No." Gabe's voice was quiet, lethal. "I'm thinking of cutting the head off the snake."
Marco stilled. "Vitale?"
Gabe looked up, his eyes dark, unwavering. "Richard started this war in the shadows. I'll end it in the open."
In her room down the hall, Lottie lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The echoes of gunfire still rang in her ears, the smell of blood still clung to her. She turned onto her side, gripping the sheets, trying to shut it all out.
But sleep never came.
Because beneath all her fear, all her fury, one truth dug its claws deeper every hour.
She didn't trust Gabriel Cavelli.
But she was starting to believe him.