The industrial district was wrapped in silence, broken only by the faint hum of a flickering streetlamp and the muffled thump of music from the Santoros' den. The night air reeked of oil and dust, the metallic tang clinging to every breath.
Luca Moretti leaned against the side of a dark van, his suit jacket unbuttoned, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He inhaled slowly, letting the smoke linger in his lungs before exhaling in a thin, controlled stream. His movements were precise, unhurried, like a man with all the time in the world.
Beside him, Enzo paced. His own cigarette burned fast, the ash dropping to the ground in careless flakes. He took sharp drags, almost chewing the filter, then spat it out before lighting another. His boot tapped restlessly against the asphalt.
"You're too slow, Luca," Enzo muttered, eyes fixed on the warehouse across the street. "They're laughing in there. I can hear them. Every second we wait is another second those rats breathe."
Luca didn't look at him. His gaze was on his watch, then the warehouse, then back to the map folded neatly in his palm. He tapped ash neatly into the gutter.
"Timing is everything," he said calmly. "Strike too early, they scatter. Strike too late, someone slips away. Patience wins wars, Enzo."
Enzo gave a low, humorless laugh. "This isn't a war. It's pest control."
He cracked his knuckles, eyes glinting in the dark. "You think our cousin's eyes are empty? Mine aren't. Mine burn every time someone spits on the family name. And those Santoro bastards spit."
Luca's lips curved in the faintest smile, though it never reached his eyes. "Which is why you're the left hand. You bleed for him." He tapped his own temple with two fingers. "And I think for him."
Enzo tilted his head, smirking. "Together we make him untouchable."
The two shared a silence, smoke curling around them like ghosts.
Luca raised his radio. His voice was calm, precise. "Positions, report."
Static crackled, followed by soft confirmations:
"North sealed."
"East sealed."
"South covered."
"West locked."
Luca nodded. "No exits. No survivors."
Enzo's grin widened, feral. He adjusted the strap of his shotgun and pulled another cigarette from his pack.
"They won't even know what killed them."
---
Inside the warehouse, the Santoros were oblivious.
Vito leaned forward, pounding the table with his fist as he told the story again. "I swear, you should've seen their faces! One of them begged me, begged me, on his knees. Said he was Moretti. I laughed in his teeth."
The gang roared with laughter, raising glasses.
"They're weak!" one man shouted. "All bark, no bite!"
Another slammed his glass down. "If the Morettis had any real backbone, they'd have shown it by now. We've been here months, and what have they done? Nothing. They don't even know our name."
Vito leaned back in his chair, puffing his cigar. "That's right. We're ghosts to them. Nobodies. They won't waste their time on us. We own this street now."
Cheers erupted. Bottles clinked. The radio crackled louder with drunken music.
Not a single one of them noticed the shadows moving outside.
---
From the rooftop across the street, two Moretti riflemen adjusted their scopes, crosshairs dancing over the glowing windows. Their breaths were slow, steady, like hunters.
Down below, black cars idled in silence. Moretti soldiers crouched in the darkness, their weapons polished, magazines checked twice, safeties off.
Each man wore plain clothes, nothing flashy, but their movements screamed discipline. Fingers to earpieces, signals passed in silence, eyes scanning every angle.
This was not a street gang. This was a machine.
And at the heart of it stood Luca, calm as a metronome, watching his watch tick to the next minute. He took a final drag from his cigarette, crushing it neatly under his heel.
"Now," he said softly.
Enzo's grin was wolfish. He dropped his cigarette, let it burn out on the pavement, and racked his shotgun with a satisfying clack.
"Let's bleed them."
---
The first shots cracked through the night like thunder.
Snipers punched holes through the warehouse windows, glass shattering inward as the music cut off. Men screamed, bottles crashed, the radio hissed static.
Before the Santoros could react, black-clad soldiers swarmed from every side. Doors burst open, boots thundered against concrete, and the first wave of bullets tore through flesh and wood alike.
The Santoros scrambled, overturning tables for cover, grabbing pistols from their belts, shouting in confusion.
"What the fuck—?!"
"Who are they?!"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Vito roared over the chaos, dragging his pistol free. "Hold your ground! It's just street punks!"
But even as he said it, he saw how the attackers moved—disciplined, coordinated, cutting corners with precision, firing in bursts instead of wild sprays. Every man covered the other. Every shot found flesh.
These weren't punks.
This was war.
---
Enzo stormed through the front entrance, shotgun booming. A man flew backward, chest exploding in red mist. Another tried to raise his weapon; Enzo's boot slammed into his face, caving his nose, blood splattering across the floor.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch. His expression was blank as he reloaded mid-step, firing again into the writhing body on the floor.
Behind him, Luca entered with cold precision. His pistol barked twice, both bullets finding foreheads. His eyes scanned constantly, calculating angles, marking exits, signaling his men with small gestures.
Where Enzo was fire, Luca was ice.
Together they carved through the chaos like scythes.
The Santoros screamed, desperate now, firing blindly. Some tried to crawl away. Others clutched their wounds, begging for mercy.
"Please—wait—we didn't know—!"
"Stop! We can pay, we can—"
Their pleas vanished under the roar of gunfire.
---
In the park, the man with dead eyes sat on his bench, staring up at the stars. His heart beat steady now, lulled by the false quiet.
Good, he thought. For once, no trouble. Just silence.
He had no idea that, only a few streets away, silence was being bought with blood