The night air was cool, carrying the faint rustle of leaves through the empty park. Streetlamps stood at intervals, their dim yellow glow failing to chase away the shadows. A single man walked slowly along the path, hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. His eyes were dull, like glass marbles—lifeless, empty, the kind of eyes that made strangers avert their gaze.
But inside those eyes lived a very different man.
Why does it always feel like I'm being watched? he thought, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Every corner I turn, I can't shake the thought that someone wants me dead. I never asked for this. I just want to sit in peace, look at the stars… maybe drink a cup of coffee without worrying if it's poisoned.
His jaw clenched. He hated how his body betrayed him—the faint tremor in his hands, the way his heart picked up when footsteps echoed too close behind. He had never been fearless. He wasn't some unkillable monster the city whispered about. He was just… a man who wanted to live.
And yet, to the world, those same fears—the tightness in his chest, the silence he wrapped himself in—looked like something else entirely. To them, his dead eyes meant hunger for power. His silence was cold calculation. His minimal words were those of a predator who never wasted breath.
A predator. A psycho. A devil in human form.
If only they knew the truth.
He lowered himself onto a park bench, the wooden slats cool beneath his coat. From here he could see the faint lights of the city skyline, hear the distant hum of traffic. To him, this was freedom—this fragile, fleeting quiet.
A pair of figures approached him from the shadows: his cousins. One older, one younger, both raised alongside him in the Moretti family.
Luca, the elder by two years, always carried himself like a businessman. Neat, precise, thoughtful, the kind of man who could calculate a profit margin as easily as he could plan an ambush. Beside him, Enzo—the younger—was all fire and fury. Quick to act, quick to fight, quicker still to spill blood if he thought it necessary. Where Luca was the right hand, Enzo was the left fist.
They stopped a few paces from the bench, waiting silently for their cousin to speak first.
The man with dead eyes glanced up at them. His voice was flat, a blade scraping stone.
"Don't let trouble come to me tonight. I want peace."
He meant it literally. He wanted quiet. He wanted to enjoy the night air without fearing some enemy lurking in the dark.
But to Luca and Enzo, the words were not so simple.
Luca inclined his head. "Understood."
Enzo's lips curved into something between a grin and a snarl. "It will be handled."
They left without another word.
The man on the bench leaned back, exhaling slowly. Good, he thought. They'll stay nearby, watching the shadows. I'll be safe tonight.
If only he knew.
---
Luca lit a cigarette as he walked, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features. His voice was low when he spoke to Enzo.
"You heard him. No trouble tonight."
Enzo chuckled darkly. "And what do you think he meant by that?"
Luca's eyes narrowed. "The Santoro gang."
The name hung between them like a curse.
Two nights ago, the Santoros had made the mistake of roughing up a group of low-level Moretti men—errand runners, boys barely worth notice. They'd done it to prove themselves, to mock the Morettis without thinking twice. In their arrogance, they bragged about it afterward, laughing at how the so-called great family sent weaklings into their path.
To the Santoros, it was nothing more than sport.
But to Luca and Enzo, the insult was blood-deep. And when their cousin said don't let trouble come to me, they heard: erase the problem.
Luca tapped ash from his cigarette. "We'll strike tonight. End them before they even realize who they crossed."
Enzo's grin widened. "Finally. They'll learn what happens when rats bite at lions."
---
The Santoro gang's hideout was a converted auto shop at the edge of the industrial district. By day it looked abandoned—rusting shutters, graffiti, the stench of oil. By night, it came alive with smoke, laughter, and cheap liquor.
Inside, a dozen men crowded around scarred tables, bottles littered across the surface. The air was thick with smoke, the sour tang of sweat and unwashed clothes. Music blared from an old radio, half-drowned by drunken voices.
Vito Santoro, their leader, leaned back in a torn leather chair, a cigar clenched between yellowed teeth. He was broad-shouldered, his hair slicked back with too much grease, his shirt half unbuttoned to show a hairy chest and a gold chain.
He laughed as one of his men mimed the beating they'd given to the Moretti errand boys.
"Pathetic bastards," Vito roared. "Cried like little girls when we put boots to 'em. Morettis, my ass. They send street trash, we treat them like trash."
Another man raised his glass. "To the Santoros! Kings of the streets!"
The others cheered, banging bottles against the table.
Vito smirked, smoke curling from his lips. "And don't any of you worry. The Morettis won't move over a couple of rats getting squashed. We've been too small for 'em to notice. They've got bigger problems than us."
The gang laughed again, emboldened by liquor and ignorance.
Outside, in the shadows of the street, dark shapes moved.
Unmarked cars slid into position, engines off, lights dim. Doors opened silently, boots touching concrete without a sound.
Moretti soldiers fanned out, each step measured, weapons checked, radios whispering. They moved like a machine, each man covering the other, each angle watched.
The Santoros had no idea they were already surrounded.
---
Luca crouched behind the wheel of a parked van, his cigarette now extinguished. He spoke into a low radio. "Positions?"
A soft chorus answered back. "North covered. South covered. East clear. West sealed."
Enzo stood beside him, shotgun resting against his shoulder, impatience burning in his eyes. "They're drinking themselves stupid in there. Give the word, Luca."
Luca's gaze was cold. "Not yet. We move when they're loudest, when they're weakest. No one runs. No one warns."
Enzo cracked his neck, lips curling. "He said no trouble tonight. So we'll end the trouble before midnight."
---
Back in the park, the man with dead eyes sat in silence, watching the stars blink faintly through the smog. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, a faint shiver running down his spine.
It feels too quiet, he thought. I hope they really are close by, watching. As long as I don't see them, I'll believe they're just hiding to protect me.
He closed his eyes briefly, pretending the world wasn't what it was.
Unaware that, at that very moment, his vague words had already doomed an entire gang.