The night ripped open, not by thunder, but by gunfire, sharp and close enough to rattle a man's teeth.
"Damn these bastards!" Carlos Mancini roared, his voice more guttural than human. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, mixing with the sweat and the spray of lead. "The DeLuca family… they don't know who the hell they're starting with."
A distant siren, a mournful wail, sliced through the downpour. Growing louder.
"Shit! Carlos—the cops! They're on us!" Franco's voice hitched, thin with panic. "We gotta move. Now!"
Carlos's eyes, hard as chipped stone, flicked to the crumpled heap against the warehouse wall. A man, barely a shadow in the pulsing flashes of blue and red. Marcos Villante.
"You're lucky tonight, Marcos," Carlos spat, the words tasting like ash. "Damn lucky you still got breath in your lungs."
He didn't spare another look. Just jammed a thumb over his shoulder. "Get the others. We're gone!"
The war between the Romano and DeLuca families wasn't new. It was an old scar, usually hidden, usually respected. A fragile line, always there, keeping the worst of the bloodshed at bay. Tonight, under the relentless rain and the crackling, indifferent sky, that line had dissolved into a bloody puddle.
A black van, a hulking shadow, idled at the mouth of a narrow alley, its headlights fighting a losing battle against the mist. Carlos, Franco, and the handful of survivors, soaked and shaken, piled in. The tires screamed, fighting for purchase on the wet pavement, then the van was gone, swallowed by the night.
Carlos slammed his fist against the dashboard, the dull thud lost in the hum of the engine. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping away rain and the sticky film of something else. Blood. Not his own.
"When we get to the boss," he growled, his voice a low, seething rumble in the cramped space, "I'll be the one to tell him we didn't finish. That bastard Villante… he's still breathing." The words tasted like bile. Failure.
The street pulsed with red and blue light, painting everything in an eerie, restless glow. Rainwater gathered in every dip of the pavement, swirling with dark, thinning stains of fresh blood.
Detective Sienna Marchesi stepped out of her sleek black sedan. Her hand went, almost unconsciously, to the solid weight of her holstered weapon. Among the grizzled faces and tired eyes of the force, she was a quiet legend – brilliant, yes, relentless, absolutely, but what truly set her apart was that dangerous, almost feral intuition.
She took it all in, eyes like razor blades, missing nothing. "I'll take the perimeter," she called out, already moving with those measured, deliberate strides that spoke of controlled power. She didn't wait for a reply. No one ever did.
The air itself felt heavy, thick with the metallic tang of gunpowder and the clean scent of rain.
Then she saw him.
A man, splayed out, barely conscious. His arm, a mangled mess of blood and torn fabric, looked like it had been put through a meat grinder. His breaths were shallow, ragged, but there. Steady enough.
Sienna's fingers tightened on her radio. The plastic felt cold, unforgiving.
"I've got a live one."
Footsteps crunched on gravel behind her. Detective Damien Varela, her partner, ambled up, a lazy smirk already pulling at his lips.
"Well, well, well," Damien drawled, crouching beside the man, a mocking curiosity in his gaze. "Looks like someone left this little bird bleeding out in the rain."
Sienna ignored him, her gaze locked on the trembling rise and fall of Marcos Villante's chest. This wasn't just another turf war. Not anymore. This felt… bigger. Heavy.
"Get him treated," Sienna snapped, the urgency in her voice cutting through the casual chaos. "Then we bring him in."
Damien let out a low whistle, grabbing Marcos's good arm, steadying him as the man let out a guttural groan of agony. "Alright, pal. Let's see if you can stay alive long enough actually to talk."
Meanwhile, the black van glided up the long, winding drive, pulling to a silent stop outside the sprawling estate of Lorenzo Don Romano. To the underworld, he was simply De Viber.
The man was a myth, a shadow made flesh. The wealthiest, most feared mafia boss in New York, they said. His influence, a dark web, stretched from the glitzy towers of Manhattan all the way to the ancient, sun-baked hills of Sicily. He ruled with an iron grip that crushed bone, and a chillingly refined taste for blood.
Carlos, Franco, and the surviving men stepped into the opulent marble foyer. Their wet shoes squeaked on the polished stone, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. Dante, one of Lorenzo's most trusted lieutenants, was already there, waiting. His smile was a thin, cold blade.
"You're just in time," Dante said, his voice as smooth as the marble beneath their feet. "The Boss is waiting."
They followed him into the grand living room, a space that felt designed to hold secrets. The air in here was a living thing, thick enough to choke on.
And there he was. Lorenzo Don Romano. Seated like a king carved from dark stone. He reclined in a plush leather armchair, arms folded across his chest, his very presence radiating a quiet, dangerous dominance. His eyes, dark and hawk-like, burned with a contained fury, embers behind glass.
"Is it done?" His voice was a low murmur, smooth as aged whiskey, yet it carried the undeniable weight of a death sentence.
Carlos hesitated. His throat felt like sandpaper. "Y-yes, Boss. But—"
"But?" Lorenzo's gaze, already sharp, narrowed further, pinning Carlos like a moth to a board.
Carlos's false courage crumbled. He swallowed hard. "Marcos… he's still alive. The cops showed up. Before we… before we could finish."
For a single, agonizing heartbeat, only silence.
Then: CRASH!
Lorenzo's heavy whiskey glass exploded against the ornate marble floor, shards scattering like glittering ice. Amber liquid bled slowly, sinuously, across the polished stone.
"One. Job." His voice began as a whisper, then rose, low and venomous, a predator's snarl. "I give you one job, Carlos—and you fail me?" His glare could have cut through steel, through bone. "Where is he?"
Carlos felt a cold dread creep up his spine. "We left him at the scene. I… I think the cops took him."
Lorenzo leaned forward, just slightly, but the change in him was palpable. His tone dropped again, to something far deadlier, far more intimate.
"I want eyes on the ground. Marcos dies—do you hear me? No one crosses De Viber and lives." His gaze swept over them all, each man feeling its sharp, cold edge like a knife. "If that bastard talks, you can kiss your families goodbye."
Carlos and Franco nodded, quick, frantic jerks of their heads, fear stark and naked on their faces.
"Then go," Lorenzo snapped, the word a whip crack. "Move."
Outside, Carlos muttered under his breath, the rain still falling. "We need to act fast. If he talks—"
Stefano De Rossi, who had remained a silent, watchful presence, cut him off. "If the cops have him, they'll protect him. We'll have to hit the hospital. Quiet, but clean."
Franco's lips curled into a dark, humorless smirk. "Then let's hunt."
Lorenzo remained seated, unmoving, the firelight in the ornate fireplace dancing across the sharp angles of his face, illuminating the cold calculation in his eyes.
"Dante," he said, his voice soft, almost conversational, without looking up.
"Boss?" Dante appeared as if conjured, a silent shadow.
"Keep an eye on Carlos. If he screws this up again…" Lorenzo let the silence hang, heavy with unspoken threats. Dante understood.
Dante simply nodded once, a quick, almost imperceptible movement.
"And," Lorenzo added, his voice dropping, "get me Detective Sienna Marchesi's number. Quietly. Use Victoria if you must."
Dante paused. A flicker of surprise. "You think she's—"
"I know she's meddling," Lorenzo growled, cutting him off. His gaze sharpened, fixed on the dancing flames. "She rescued Marcos Villante. Just like three years ago… she's interfering again. And now, I want to see how far she's willing to go."
The wail of the sirens intensified, then abruptly ceased, as Sienna's team burst through the sliding doors of the ER. They wheeled Marcos in, the gurney rattling.
"Gunshot wounds, left arm, needs surgery!" Sienna barked, her voice cutting through the general chaos of the emergency room.
Marcos's groans were faint, drowned out by the shouts of nurses and the screech of wheels.
"Pulse is weak but stable," a nurse called out as they quickly transferred him onto another gurney, rushing him towards a trauma bay.
Sienna watched them go, her instincts screaming. This wasn't just another victim. This was a piece in a much larger, uglier puzzle.
Outside the trauma bay, Damien leaned against the wall, watching the hurried activity. "If this guy's connected to the Romano mafia, we need him talking before they find him."
Sienna nodded, her jaw tight. "Put a guard on him. Twenty-four seven. No one goes in or out without my personal clearance."
"And if Romano's men show up?" Damien asked, a faint challenge in his tone.
Sienna's lips curved into a dangerous, icy smirk. "Then they go through us first."
Just then, her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She hesitated, a prickle of unease. Then answered.
"Detective Marchesi."
A low, distorted voice filled her ear, static-laced, chilling.
"You have something that doesn't belong to you."
Sienna's blood ran cold. A knot tightened in her stomach. "Who is this?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.
The voice chuckled, slow and deliberate, a sound like gravel grinding.
"Hand over what's mine, Detective. And maybe… I'll let you live."
The line went dead.
Lorenzo tossed his phone onto the heavy mahogany desk. It landed with a soft thud. His fury wasn't a raging inferno now, but a dangerous, controlled heat, like fire under thick glass.
"Dante!" he barked.
Dante appeared instantly, as if he'd been waiting just outside the door.
"I want full intel on that hospital," Lorenzo said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, hard as steel. "Carlos and Franco will finish the job—or they won't live to see tomorrow."
Marcos stirred, a groan escaping his lips as a white-hot lance of pain shot through his left arm. He tried to push himself up, but the sharp, metallic clank of handcuffs stopped him cold.
"Fuck," he hissed, the word a dry whisper.
The door clicked open. Sienna Marchesi stepped in, her shadow stretching long behind her. She pulled a chair over, scraping it lightly on the linoleum, and sat beside him.
"Rough night?" she asked, her voice cool, almost clinical.
Marcos just stared at her, his eyes dark, unreadable. Silence hung between them.
"You were left for dead at a warehouse," Sienna continued, her gaze unwavering. "No ID, no story. Just a lot of bullet holes. So, lucky, or important?"
He managed a faint, painful smirk, a flash of something defiant in his eyes despite the agony. "You tell me."
Damien's voice cut in from the doorway, a casual intrusion. "We got a call earlier—someone demanding we hand over what's theirs. Sound familiar?"
Marcos said nothing, just averted his gaze, staring at the sterile white ceiling.
Sienna leaned in, her voice dropping, low and intense. "Talk, Marcos. Because right now, you're the biggest loose end in a war that's already on fire. And believe me, a war like this? It'll burn you alive."
He exhaled sharply, a ragged sound. His eyes, dark and haunted, finally met hers. "Alright," he rasped, the word tasting of defeat. "What do you want to know?"
"The cops have him under light security," Dante reported, his voice devoid of emotion. "Just a couple of uniforms at the door, nothing heavy."
"Good," Lorenzo said, a chillingly cold smile touching his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "Carlos and Franco will finish it. And if Detective Marchesi gets in their way…"
He paused, a deliberate, ominous silence. His tone dropped, becoming a silky, deadly whisper.
"Bring her to me. Alive."