The stench of blood still lingered in the streets when Don Matteo Grimaldi slammed his fists against the table. His mansion's dining hall was empty of laughter now, filled instead with trembling captains who dared not meet his eyes. The Butcher's massacre had shattered their spirits, and yet Matteo refused to accept defeat.
"They are not gods!" he snarled, his voice breaking. "They bleed! They die! Gather what's left of our soldiers! we strike back tonight!"
But his words rang hollow. His men shifted uneasily, their eyes flickering toward the floor. They remembered Cain's axe, Darius's pipe, Ravenna's whispers in their homes. They remembered how even the Tycoon had turned their money into dust.
"Don," one captain finally muttered, "half the men are gone… the rest are deserting. Some even say they'd rather serve the Devil than die for us."
Matteo's face twisted with fury. "Cowards! I will not crawl to that monster!"
Yet deep inside, the cracks of fear widened. His allies in business had cut ties. His soldiers pissed themselves at the mere mention of Lucius. Even his daughter sobbed in her room, refusing to come out, whispering that the Devil was already inside their home.
Still, desperation can make fools reckless. That night, Matteo ordered his remaining loyalists to prepare a convoy. If the Devil wanted war, then Matteo would bring the fight to his doorstep. "If Draxion breathes," Matteo swore, "I will cut the breath from his lungs myself."
But as the convoy rolled out, engines growling in the night, the air grew heavier. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the streets. The soldiers gripped their rifles tighter, sweat dripping down their brows. Something was wrong.
Up ahead, the road split—and at the center stood a figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, crimson eyes burning in the dark. He did not move. He did not need to. His laughter carried on the wind, sharp and cruel, freezing every man in place.
Don Matteo's heart plummeted. His worst nightmare had come true.
The Devil himself was waiting.