The first murmurs began at a ramshackle tavern tucked in the narrow alleys near the docks. Giovanni, a thin-faced man with trembling hands, leaned heavily on a cracked wooden table, his eyes wide with terror. He was lucky to be alive—or so he thought—and the images of the previous night refused to leave his mind.
"They… they came out of nowhere," he whispered, voice shaking. "Men… like shadows. Bullets raining like fire. And laughing… laughing as if it was a game."
The bartender, unconcerned, leaned on the counter, polishing a glass. "Santoro gang?" he asked casually.
Giovanni's head snapped toward him. "Yes… yes, the Santoros… but… no street thugs move like that. I swear… they weren't human. Soldiers? Demons? I don't know… they were precise. Calm. And they laughed while killing."
Nearby gamblers and drunks perked up, pulling chairs closer. Each word Giovanni spoke seemed to carry an invisible weight, drawing the room into his terror. "Who… who were they?" someone asked.
Giovanni shook his head. "I… I don't know. Faces… shadows. But… the taller one… smoking… calm… the other… short, broad… cold laughter… killing like it was nothing. They were… untouchable."
---
Flashback – The Warehouse
The Santoro gang had been celebrating in a dilapidated warehouse on the city's outskirts. Their drinks clinked, laughter echoing off the walls, and the smell of stale alcohol mixed with the tang of old machinery. Vito, the gang leader, leaned back in his chair, brushing his hands over his chest as he boasted.
"We made fools of those thugs yesterday," he said, slurring slightly. "Thought they could touch us? Pathetic."
He laughed and waved a few of his men forward, sharing the memory of the minor skirmish. None of them noticed the distant glint of headlights or the subtle movement of figures weaving through the shadows outside. They were careless, arrogant—and unprepared.
Then came the first sound: a sharp crack of a gunshot, distant but precise. The laughter faltered. Another shot, and then another, each punctuated by a chilling silence. The Santoros looked at each other, confused.
"Who—?" one stammered.
From the shadows, men appeared like phantoms. Bullets tore through wooden crates, bottles shattering mid-air. The warehouse erupted into chaos.
Giovanni, huddled behind a stack of crates, barely breathed. He could see the taller man—Luca, calm and calculating—moving through the room, every motion deliberate, almost serene. Smoke curled from his cigarette, undisturbed by the chaos, as if the carnage around him were nothing more than a backdrop.
Beside him, Enzo moved like a whirlwind of fury. Broad-shouldered, laughing coldly, striking anyone who dared resist. He showed no hesitation, no mercy, no concern. Giovanni's mind scrambled to comprehend it. These weren't street thugs. These weren't even ordinary gangsters. They were something else entirely.
The Santoros tried to organize a defense, brandishing cheap firearms and knives. Their bullets hit nothing but empty air; they were sloppy, panicked. Enzo laughed again, a low, cruel sound that echoed off the walls as he disarmed two men in seconds. Luca calmly picked them off with precise shots, his expression never changing.
Giovanni thought, We're dead. We're all dead.
---
Back to the Alleyways
By sunrise, the survivors' stories had already begun to distort, exaggerated by fear and disbelief.
"They weren't just killing—they were dancing through it," whispered a dockworker to his friend. "One was tall… smoking… calm, like nothing could touch him. The other… laughed while tearing people apart. Not a man left standing."
"They dragged the leader out," said another, wide-eyed. "Vito… he was screaming. Begging. But they didn't touch him. The rest… gone. Every single one gone."
At the harbor, young men dealing drugs froze mid-task when they heard fragments of the story. "Luca and Enzo Moretti," one whispered. "The cousins… the killers… they cleaned out Santoro's crew?"
"Yes," another replied, voice shaking. "I saw them… or at least… the taller, calm one, and the laughing brute… they moved like death itself."
Even without trying, the city began to connect the dots. Luca and Enzo's reputation, already well-known in the underworld, amplified every terrified retelling. The survivors' exaggerations grew more vivid with each telling: bullets raining like hellfire, smoke curling like ghosts, laughter echoing over bodies.
---
Flashback – Survivors' Exaggeration
Paolo, another survivor, recounted the night at the docks to a group of friends:
"They came out of nowhere," he stammered. "One… smoking, calm… like he was a god. The other… laughing, broad… killing like… like it was a sport. Men falling like wheat before a scythe."
His friends added their own details, as rumors always do. "He said the bullets rained fire." "They didn't bleed—they just… moved through it, untouchable."
By the end of the night, everyone who heard it had their own version. No one knew exactly what happened, but everyone agreed: the Moretti cousins were terrifying.
---
Bars and Back Alleys
The tale traveled naturally.
In a gambling den, a dealer leaned across the table: "Santoros? Gone. Not a man left. Dragged the leader somewhere. Didn't touch the boss, but… everything else?" He shivered.
In a brothel, a drunk patron yelled: "They moved like ghosts! Calm and ruthless! Bullets everywhere!"
On the streets, small gangs whispered: "Don't mess with Moretti. Not just the boss… the cousins too."
Fear, not manipulation, drove the story. Each retelling became more vivid, more horrifying.
---
Legend Solidifies
By midday, the underworld was abuzz:
The taller, calm man smoking in the chaos—Luca—was spoken of in reverent whispers. "Calculating… untouchable… precise as a knife."
The broad, ruthless man—Enzo—was mythologized as a laughing executioner. "Laughing while killing, blood on his hands… untouchable."
Survivors' memories, distorted by panic, created a story far more terrifying than the actual events.
And yet… the true Moretti Boss remained absent, walking elsewhere, oblivious to the terror growing around him.
---
From dockside alleyways to crowded taverns, the same phrase echoed:
"They didn't even touch the boss. They just dragged him. The rest… gone. Who even are these Moretti cousins?"
The city answered itself in whispers, fear multiplying with every retelling. Luca and Enzo faded into the shadows, cigarettes glowing faintly as they walked past the wreckage. Not a word was spoken. The work had been done. The legend, unknowingly, had begun