The warehouse stank of cordite and blood. Smoke clung to the rafters like a veil. Men screamed, metal rang as chairs and bottles crashed to the floor.
The Santoros fired wildly, muzzle flashes strobing the room. But every shot went nowhere—ricocheting off walls, chewing up splinters, punching holes into shadows.
They were blind.
And the shadows shot back with cold precision.
---
Enzo walked through the chaos like a wolf through sheep. His shotgun cracked again and again, each blast spraying gore across the concrete floor. A man tried to crawl away; Enzo stepped on his leg, crushing bone under his heel, and pulled the trigger point-blank.
The man's body jerked once and went limp.
"Street rats," Enzo muttered, reloading without breaking stride. He spat a wad of smoke-tainted saliva onto the corpse. "Squeal all the same when you die."
He lit another cigarette straight after, using the fire from a burning table as his match. He inhaled deeply, shotgun still warm in his other hand. The smoke curled around his head as if even the fire bowed to him.
---
Luca, in contrast, was stillness incarnate.
While Enzo stormed forward, Luca moved sideways, pistol raised at a steady angle. His shots were single, deliberate, always two to the chest, one to the head. No wasted bullets.
He stopped behind an overturned table, glanced at his watch, then signaled with a flick of his fingers. Two soldiers instantly adjusted, cutting off the back exit.
Another Santoro rushed him with a knife, screaming in panic. Luca didn't flinch. He waited until the man was close, then fired once through his throat. The man collapsed, choking on his own blood. Luca sidestepped the body, unbothered, as if stepping around a puddle.
"Keep your lines," he said softly into his radio. His voice was calm, clear, never raised. "No strays. End it quickly."
His tone carried no heat, no anger—just a simple instruction.
That calmness terrified the Santoros more than Enzo's brutality.
---
"Who the fuck are they?!" one of the gangsters cried, crouched behind an overturned barrel. His hands trembled as he tried to reload.
"They're not street trash!" another shouted, firing blind through the smoke. "They move like soldiers!"
Panic rippled through the survivors. They weren't drunk anymore. Fear had sobered them faster than ice water.
Vito, the leader, fired his pistol into the smoke, then grabbed one of his men by the collar. "Shut the fuck up! They're nobodies! Just nobodies! They don't know who we are!"
But even his voice cracked at the edges.
---
Enzo kicked over a table, sending a Santoro scrambling backward. The gangster raised his pistol, hands shaking.
"Wait! Wait! Let's talk! We didn't mean—"
Enzo fired before he could finish. The blast tore his chest apart, painting the wall red.
Enzo blew the smoke off his barrel, then looked across the room at Luca.
"Talk," he said, mocking. "They always want to talk when the blood's already spilled."
Luca didn't answer. He only shot another man trying to reach the stairs.
---
The Santoros' resistance crumbled fast. They had numbers at first--fifty, maybe more. Now bodies littered the floor, half of them already still. The survivors huddled behind cover, too afraid to peek out.
"Boss, we can't win this," one of them whispered to Vito. His voice was hoarse, shaking. "We gotta surrender. Whoever they are, they're bigger than us."
Vito's face was pale under the flickering lights. Sweat poured down his brow. He glanced at the shadows moving with military grace, then at Enzo's feral grin, Luca's cold precision.
He swallowed hard.
Then he stood, raising his pistol high, shouting.
"STOP! STOP! We yield!"
The gunfire slowed. Silence fell like a blade. Only smoke and the moans of the dying filled the air.
Luca lowered his pistol a fraction, watching. His expression didn't change.
Enzo tilted his head, cigarette glowing, shotgun resting casually on his shoulder.
"Yield?" he repeated. His voice was mocking, cruel. "You think this is a game? You spit on us, beat our men, and now you want mercy?"
Vito shook his head frantically. He threw his pistol down, raising his trembling hands. "We didn't know! I swear we didn't know who they were. We thought they were just nobodies—street rats. Please, it was a mistake!"
Enzo's grin spread wide, cruel. He stepped closer, boots crunching glass. "And now you know."
Luca raised a hand. Enzo stopped mid-step, glaring, but obeyed.
The calm cousin approached instead, lowering his pistol slightly. His eyes were dead, unreadable.
"Which one of you is Vito Santoro?" he asked quietly.
Vito's heart slammed in his chest. "I—I am."
Luca nodded once. "Good. You live."
Enzo raised a brow. "What?"
"Alive," Luca said simply. He turned to his men. "Bag him. The rest—"
His hand flicked down.
Gunfire erupted one last time. The warehouse filled with final screams, then silence.
Vito stood trembling, his ears ringing, as the last of his men dropped around him. He was grabbed, dragged backward, blindfold shoved over his eyes.
His body shook uncontrollably. Who the hell are these people? What did we do?
---
The van door slammed shut. Vito sat bound, blindfolded, gagged. The city rolled past outside, but he couldn't see it. All he could hear was the calm voice of Luca and the ruthless chuckle of Enzo.
"We should've left him in pieces," Enzo muttered, lighting another cigarette. Smoke filled the van, thick and choking. "He doesn't deserve breath."
"He deserves to be useful," Luca replied evenly. "The boss decides. Not us."
"The boss," Vito thought, terror flooding him. If these are his dogs, what kind of monster is the master?
---
Meanwhile, in the quiet park, a man sat alone on a bench. His eyes, cold and lifeless, stared up at the sky.
Finally, peace, he thought. For once, I can just sit without trouble.
Two bodyguards lingered at a distance, hidden in shadow. To him, it felt like they'd only given him space, keeping away to let him breathe. He had no idea his cousins had left with the rest of the men, turning the streets into a killing ground.
If he had known, his heart would have stopped with fear. He wasn't untouchable. He wasn't fearless. Inside, he was still human—still afraid of death.
But to the world, to everyone watching, he was the silent ghost at the center of the storm.
And now, a trembling gangster was on his way to kneel before him