The Cavelli estate never slept anymore.
What had once been a sanctuary of marble and firelight now pulsed with the restless energy of men preparing for war. Boots scuffed across polished floors, radios crackled in clipped tones, and the smell of gun oil clung to the air like smoke. Maps sprawled across tabletops, layered with notes, red circles, and hastily drawn lines.
At the center of it all stood Gabriel Cavelli.
He leaned over the main map spread across his office desk, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a half-burned cigarette he'd forgotten to finish. His jaw was a rigid line, his eyes sharpened into steel as he traced the routes Vitale had used in the past month. Marco stood at his side, the glow of the desk lamp deepening the shadows in his face.
"You're serious about this," Marco muttered at last.
Gabe didn't glance up. "Dead serious."
Marco tapped the map with a blunt finger. "This isn't like cutting off supply lines. This isn't like torching his crates or gutting his men in alleys. You're talking about taking a swing at Richard Vitale himself. You miss, he'll make you bleed for it. He'll make us all bleed."
Gabe exhaled smoke, finally meeting Marco's eyes. "Then we don't miss."
Silence stretched, heavy and taut. Marco's loyalty had been forged long before the war—long before Daniel's death had hollowed Gabe and sharpened him all at once. He didn't question Gabe's resolve; he questioned the odds.
"You want a clean strike," Marco said, more statement than question. "A kill shot."
Gabe nodded once. "No more shadows. No more chasing ghosts while he feasts under our noses. We end this where it began—out in the open."
Marco scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. "Then we'll need men who don't flinch, and intel that's airtight. One mistake, and it won't be you buried—it'll be all of us."
Gabe's reply was iron. "Then we make sure there are no mistakes."
Later that night, the estate's war room filled with Cavelli soldiers. The long oak table was scarred from years of elbows, knives, and whiskey glasses slammed against it, but tonight it was a battlefield of its own. Dozens of eyes fixed on Gabe as he entered, Marco trailing behind him. Conversations died instantly.
He didn't raise his voice when he spoke. He didn't need to.
"Vitale thinks he owns this city," Gabe began, his gaze sweeping across the men. "He thinks shadows will protect him. He thinks bleeding us slow will make us fold." He leaned forward, his knuckles pressing into the table. "But shadows don't last. Eventually, you step into the light."
A murmur rippled through the room. Some men looked eager, others wary. Marco caught their expressions—he knew half of them were running on fumes, held together by whiskey and the memory of Daniel Rossi.
"We're not waiting anymore," Gabe continued. "We're not reacting anymore. We're taking the fight to him. Richard Vitale bleeds like any man, and I'll carve the city in half to prove it."
The murmurs grew into low approval, fists tapping against the table. Marco watched as the tide shifted—fear giving way to fire.
"We move in three nights," Gabe said. "Until then, no word leaves this room. Not a whisper. Vitale's ears are everywhere, and I'll cut out the tongue of any man who forgets that."
Silence answered him, heavy with both fear and loyalty.
"Marco has the details," Gabe finished, straightening. "You'll get your orders. Dismissed."
The men filed out, some with grim faces, others with sparks of anticipation burning in their eyes. When the last soldier was gone, Marco dropped into a chair, pulling a cigarette from his pocket.
"You just lit a fuse," he said.
Gabe poured two fingers of whiskey, sliding the glass across the table. "Then let's make sure it leads to him."
Upstairs, Charlotte Rossi couldn't sleep.
The echoes of gunfire still haunted her ears, the screams of the docks skirmish chasing her into every silence. She had told herself she was done with this world after Daniel's death—that she would never again drown in blood and vengeance. Yet here she was, trapped in its undertow, tethered to a man who lived with death as if it were his shadow.
She paced the length of her room, her hands twisting together, her mind replaying the sharp edge of Gabe's words from earlier. It is inevitable. The question isn't if, Charlotte. It's when.
God, she hated him for that.
And yet…
When she had told him You're all I have left, something in him had faltered. She'd seen it. A crack in the steel. A moment where Gabriel Cavelli, not the don, not the warlord, but the man, had surfaced. It had been gone in an instant, swallowed by the armor he wore. But it had been there.
She pressed her palms to her face, willing the tears not to fall. She couldn't afford to be weak, not here, not now. Not when the ground itself felt like it was breaking beneath them.
Across the city, in a warehouse reeking of oil and steel, Richard Vitale studied his own map. Veronica Caruso sat opposite him, her wound bound but her pride still raw. Rafa stood in the shadows, silent as ever.
"They'll come," Vitale murmured, his eyes on the red-marked docks. "Cavelli's too proud to hide. Too desperate to hold his empire together. He'll step into the light—and when he does, we'll be waiting."
Veronica's lips curved, cruel and hungry. "And Charlotte?"
Vitale's smile was a razor's edge. "Still bait."
Back at the Cavelli estate, the storm gathered. Men sharpened blades, loaded magazines, whispered prayers. Marco double-checked every route, every fallback, every detail.
And Gabe?
He stood alone in his office, staring at the city that stretched before him. His reflection burned back at him from the glass—tired eyes, clenched jaw, the ghost of Daniel Rossi at his back.
Three nights. That was all it would take.
Three nights, and the war would either end in fire—
Or bury them all in ash.