Elena
The city didn't sleep that night.
It held its breath.
Even through the thick walls of the Moretti estate, Elena could feel it — that strange stillness before something shatters. The mansion was quieter than usual. Guards moved in careful pairs. The hum of power, of danger, was a pulse in the air.
She hadn't seen Lorenzo since dawn. He'd left the room without a word, only a look — the kind that felt like a promise and a warning wrapped in one.
Now, hours later, the silence pressed harder.
Elena wandered through the hallways, her reflection gliding along the marble walls like a ghost. Every chandelier shimmered coldly above her. She passed portraits of men — the Morettis — each one carved from arrogance and power.
And at the end of the corridor stood one painting that made her stop:
A man in black, standing in a burning field. His face turned away.
Something about it — the flames, the isolation — felt like Lorenzo.
"Miss Rossi," a voice called behind her.
She turned sharply. It was Luca — always in control, always unreadable.
"The boss asked that you stay in your room tonight," he said.
Her brows knit. "Why?"
His jaw flexed, but he didn't answer. "For your safety."
"That's what you said last time," she murmured, "and then someone died."
Luca's eyes flicked to her — just for a moment — and in that small silence, she saw what he didn't say. Something was already happening.
She wanted to ask more, but the air changed — the faintest vibration beneath her feet.
Engines.
Far off, but too many.
Luca's hand went to his earpiece.
His entire body went rigid.
"Elena," he said quietly. "Go. Now."
Then the first explosion ripped through the night.
The floor trembled beneath her. The chandeliers swung. Glass shattered like falling rain.
Screams echoed through the mansion — sharp, scattered.
Luca pushed her toward the back staircase. "Don't stop for anyone," he barked. "Move!"
She ran.
The hallways turned into smoke and chaos. Men shouted in Italian. The sharp staccato of gunfire bled into the walls. She didn't look back until she reached the end of the hall — and saw fire reflected in the mirrors.
The mansion — the fortress of power — was burning.
Lorenzo
He'd known it was coming.
War always announces itself before it begins — not with words, but with silence.
Rafael's message had arrived at dawn, a single envelope slipped beneath his door. Inside was a photograph of Elena. Her face. Her eyes.
And beneath it, one line written in red ink:
"You chose her over blood."
That was all Rafael needed to say.
Lorenzo had prepared his men. Locked down the estate. Tripled the guards. But he'd underestimated one thing — betrayal never comes from the outside.
It comes from the hand you already trust.
He heard the explosion before his phone vibrated. Luca's voice cut through the static:
"They're inside."
Lorenzo's blood turned to ice.
"How?"
"We have a leak—someone let them in through the east wing."
Lorenzo didn't need names. He already knew.
He pulled his gun from the desk drawer, loaded it with a single, practiced motion, and stepped into the hallway. Smoke curled through the air, and somewhere far down the corridor, he heard Elena's voice calling his name.
For the first time in years, panic clawed through him.
He ran.
Elena
The east wing was a maze of smoke and noise. Shadows moved too fast to follow. She pressed herself against the wall, trying to remember the path Luca had shown her — the one that led to the back exit.
Then she saw him.
Not Lorenzo.
Rafael.
He stepped out of the haze like a phantom, his smile slow and cruel. "Little bird," he murmured. "You run just like he does."
Elena froze. Her mind screamed to move, but her body didn't obey.
He walked closer, unhurried, dressed in black that shimmered faintly with ash. His eyes — Lorenzo's eyes, but colder — caught hers.
"You must be very special," Rafael said softly. "My brother doesn't bleed for anyone. Until you."
Elena's voice was barely a whisper. "What do you want from me?"
He smiled — and it wasn't human. "To remind him that everything he touches burns."
Before she could speak, he lifted something from his pocket — a small, silver lighter — and flicked it open. The flame danced, wild and hungry.
Then someone shouted from behind her.
"Get down!"
Elena dropped to the floor as the gunfire started.
Lorenzo
He saw Rafael first — framed in the firelight, standing over her.
His brother.
The same blood. The same violence.
And for a heartbeat, he remembered being children — one learning to build, the other learning to destroy.
Now they stood as men with a lifetime between them.
"Rafael," he said.
"Brother."
The word was almost tender.
Rafael's smile deepened. "You always were too sentimental. I told you love would be your ruin."
Lorenzo raised his gun. "And I told you power without loyalty is dust."
"Then let's see who turns to dust first."
The shots came almost together. Rafael's bullet grazed his arm. Lorenzo's missed by inches. Smoke, shouting, the metallic sting of blood — chaos wrapped around them both.
Elena crawled toward the doorway, coughing, choking on the heat.
Then she heard it — another voice. Closer.
"Stay down, Miss Rossi."
Luca.
Relief hit her hard. She turned toward him — but stopped.
Because the gun in his hand wasn't pointed at Rafael.
It was pointed at Lorenzo.
"Luca," Lorenzo said slowly. "Don't."
Luca's expression was calm, almost sorrowful. "He promised me peace, Lorenzo. You never could."
Betrayal. The word didn't even sound real.
Lorenzo's voice was low, cold. "You think peace comes from men like him?"
"No," Luca said. "But I'm tired of bleeding for yours."
Rafael's laughter echoed through the smoke. "See, brother? You don't even have to burn it down yourself. They'll do it for you."
Luca turned the gun toward Elena. "I'm sorry."
Her breath caught.
And then —
Lorenzo moved.
A blur. A shadow. The sound of a shot cracking the air.
The bullet hit the wall inches from her face.
Luca fell first.
Rafael vanished into the smoke, leaving the scent of fire and gunpowder behind.
Elena reached for Lorenzo, her hands trembling. He was bleeding — shoulder, side — but his eyes never left hers.
"It's started," he said quietly.
The flames crawled higher around them, reflecting in his gaze like a promise.
"The war has begun."
Elena
Hours later — or maybe minutes; time had no meaning — the mansion was a skeleton of smoke and silence. The fire had been contained, but the damage was done.
Lorenzo stood at the balcony overlooking the courtyard, blood drying on his sleeve.
Elena stepped beside him, her body wrapped in a blanket someone had thrown over her shoulders.
Neither spoke.
Down below, men cleared debris, carried bodies, rebuilt what could be rebuilt.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"He was your brother."
Lorenzo's jaw tightened. "He still is."
"Then why—"
"Because family isn't about blood," he said, turning to face her. "It's about who stands beside you when everything burns."
Elena looked up at him — at the exhaustion in his eyes, the quiet storm beneath it.
"What happens now?" she asked.
He reached for her hand — not gently, but not harshly either.
"Now," Lorenzo said, "we finish what he started.
The night stretched around them — quiet, heavy, infinite.
But beneath it, something else began to rise.
Not just war.
Not just vengeance.
A hunger that neither of them could name anymore — the hunger to survive, together, no matter what the city demanded in return.
And far away, in the dark edges of New York, Rafael Moretti watched the smoke rise from his brother's house.
He smiled.
The game had only just begun.