The Cavelli estate was never built for silence.
It had always been a place of movement—guards shifting between posts, phones buzzing with coded orders, Marco's gravel voice carrying through the hallways, Daniel's laughter echoing from somewhere deeper in memory. But tonight the house lay hushed, its walls holding their breath as though even stone feared what dawn might bring.
Charlotte sat curled in one of the armchairs by the tall windows of her room. The drapes were drawn back, the glass cold beneath her fingertips, and the city stretched beyond like a thousand flickering eyes. Somewhere in that sprawl of light and shadow, men she knew only by sharp faces and softer names would be dying. Somewhere, Gabriel was walking into fire.
She hated herself for not knowing which thought clawed harder—the fear of him not returning, or the fear of what he would become if he did.
The clock on her nightstand ticked with cruel steadiness, each second louder than the last. Sleep had abandoned her hours ago; her body hummed with restless energy, her chest aching with the weight of helplessness. She had begged him, in her own way, to turn from this war. He had looked through her, past her, into some abyss only he seemed to recognize.
Now all she could do was wait.
Downstairs, the men who hadn't gone to the fight lingered in the halls, pacing like caged dogs. Some nursed cigarettes that burned to ash between trembling fingers; others clutched rosaries, lips moving soundlessly. They avoided her eyes when she passed, though their gazes flicked toward her with something unreadable—pity, maybe, or blame.
She felt the house itself listening. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust against the windows, every shift of shadow carried with it the question of what was happening out there.
And then, faintly, from the far-off city: the muffled crack of gunfire.
Charlotte's body went rigid. She pressed a hand to the window, as if the cold glass could anchor her, but the sound reverberated through her bones. A second volley followed, sharper, closer. Then silence, unbearable silence, before the thunder of an explosion rolled through the night air.
The estate shook. Somewhere down the hall a glass shattered.
Her breath caught. She closed her eyes, clutching the fabric of her sweater tight around her, and in the blackness behind her lids she saw Daniel's face—the last night she had seen him alive, his arm slung around Gabe, his grin full of promise. He believed in him. That thought had been her anchor once. Now it felt like a curse.
At the docks, chaos reigned.
Gabe moved like a blade through smoke, every step calculated, every shot exact. Marco was a shadow at his side, barking orders, his men fanning out across the burning skeleton of Vitale's warehouse. Flames licked the night sky, throwing everything into orange and black, silhouettes jerking against the backdrop of fire.
"Left flank!" Marco roared, dragging one of the younger men back before a hail of bullets cut the air.
But Gabe's focus never wavered. His pistol barked twice, and two shadows dropped in the distance. The air reeked of gunpowder and blood, but to him it was just noise, just the rhythm of war he had long ago memorized.
Somewhere beyond the smoke, Vitale waited. Gabe could feel it like a second heartbeat, steady and taunting.
Back at the estate, Charlotte jolted from her chair, unable to stay still. The air in her room felt too thick, the silence too oppressive. She slipped into the hallway barefoot, the marble floor cold under her feet, and found herself moving without direction. Past the portraits of Cavelli men long dead, past doors cracked open to reveal men whispering, praying, drinking themselves steady.
At the end of the corridor, the chapel stood open.
She hadn't been inside since the funeral.
Candles burned low on the altar, their flames trembling in the draft. The scent of wax and old incense filled the small space. Charlotte lowered herself to the front pew, her knees pressing against the wood, and clasped her hands together though she wasn't sure if she was praying or just trying not to fall apart.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Daniel… if you can hear me, if any of you can… keep him alive. Please. Just this once."
Her chest tightened. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and unbidden. She pressed her palms harder together, shaking.
"I don't know what's left of him. I don't even know if he deserves saving. But I—" her voice broke, and the word caught in her throat "—I can't lose him too."
The silence that followed was crushing. She half expected the candles to flicker in answer, some sign that her plea had been heard. But nothing came. Just the sound of her own uneven breathing, the thunder of distant explosions trembling faintly through the stone.
At the docks, the night had become an inferno.
A truck burned near the pier, flames licking skyward, casting Vitale's men into sharp relief as they fired from cover. Marco dragged one of his own bleeding men behind a stack of crates, shouting for a medic.
"Gabe!" he bellowed over the roar of gunfire. "They're pressing hard—he's not playing defense anymore. He wants you out in the open!"
That was exactly what Gabe wanted too.
He didn't answer. He shoved forward, reloading in one fluid motion, eyes locked on the warehouse where shadows shifted like predators. He could feel Vitale's presence, close now, circling, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The air split with another explosion, the pier shuddering underfoot. Shards of wood rained down. Men screamed.
And still, Gabriel Cavelli walked into the fire.
At the estate, Charlotte gripped the edge of the pew, knuckles white, as if she could hold back the tide of dread with sheer force. Time had lost meaning—every second stretched into an eternity, every muffled echo from the city sharpening her fear.
She thought of the words Gabe had spoken in his office: The question isn't if. It's when.
A sob clawed up her throat, raw and desperate. She pressed her hands to her face, but it did nothing to stop the tears.
"I hate you," she whispered into her palms. "I hate you for making me care if you live or die."
Her voice cracked, and she rocked forward, forehead pressing against her clasped hands. But beneath the fury, beneath the grief, another truth settled, heavy and undeniable.
She didn't just hate him. She needed him.
And that terrified her more than any gunfire could.
Outside the warehouse, Gabe finally saw him.
Vitale stepped from the smoke, his suit jacket gone, shirt bloodstained but his smile intact. The years had sharpened him into something leaner, crueler, eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt.
"Cavelli," Vitale called, voice carrying through the chaos. "You came to bleed on my floor after all."
Gabe raised his pistol, his face carved from stone. "No. I came to end you."
The city held its breath.
And the night erupted once more.