Hey guys! My exams are starting soon. I've been caught up with studying, but I got a little bored, so I took a break and wrote this chapter. I really hope you enjoy it! If you do, don't forget to drop a vote and share your thoughts—it truly keeps me going. And please remember me in your prayers so my exams go well!
Here you go guys!
Lorenzo Valente's black Maserati pulled into the underground garage beneath the headquarters—an old fortress on the outskirts of Palermo, modified with state-of-the-art security systems and lined with centuries of blood. The moment he stepped out, the place stirred to life.
Men in tailored suits and bulletproof vests moved swiftly through the marble-floored corridors. Weapons were being loaded—Glocks, Berettas, sniper rifles lined up on tables like tools in a craftsman's shed. Crates of ammunition, maps of enemy territory, surveillance reports—all of it lay scattered in organized chaos. The war room buzzed with purpose.
Enzo Moretti, his right-hand man, was already waiting by the conference table. His sleeves were rolled, a faint scar running down his wrist. "They're mobilizing fast," Enzo muttered as Lorenzo entered, offering a curt nod. "Salvatore's men are gathering in Messina. Vittorio's not waiting anymore."
"Good," Lorenzo replied, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Neither are we."
He moved toward the map, eyes scanning the red-marked zones—areas Vittorio had seized, hideouts raided, allies turned. One by one, the men stood straighter as Lorenzo approached.
"No loose ends," he said, his voice firm. "We hit the convoy at midnight. Enzo—you lead the south flank. I want Ricci's smuggling tunnels sealed. If anything moves underground, it dies."
Enzo nodded, already noting names.
"We don't just win," Lorenzo continued, "we make them bleed."
And just like that, the war wheels turned faster.
Meanwhile, in Vittorio Salvatore's compound—
It was all glass and black marble, the type of modern cruelty that gleamed even at night. Vittorio stood at the head of the long table, arms crossed over his chest. His men—lethal, loyal, and hand-picked—sat in disciplined silence.
Bianca Salvatore stood at the far end, her dark hair tucked beneath a simple cap, dressed like any civilian. But there was nothing ordinary about her. She was the family's final card.
"I want Lorenzo's empire turned to ash," Vittorio said, voice calm, precise. "No traces. No mercy."
He looked directly at Bianca.
"And you—" his tone dropped, dangerous, "you'll be inside."
She met his gaze with steady eyes.
"One mistake, Bianca... just one... and it won't just be you that falls. We all burn. Do you understand?"
"I do," she replied, her voice cool, composed.
"No slips. No sympathy. You are not his friend. You are not his savior. You are the dagger beneath his ribs. Make him trust you—make him need you. Then destroy him."
Bianca gave a single nod. Her jaw was tight, but her voice didn't falter. "I won't fail."
Vittorio's lips curled, satisfied. "Good. Then let the war begin."
The Night of Fire
The war exploded in the silence of midnight.
Palermo was lit with flame and gunfire. The sound of sirens wove into the crackle of bullets and the roar of engines. Smoke billowed from an ambushed hideout in Mondello, while in the alleys near the port, Lorenzo's men intercepted a truckload of weapons bound for Vittorio's faction.
It wasn't a war for territory. It was a war for legacy.
Enzo led the south assault like a storm—grenades, silent kills, and clean exits. Lorenzo, always at the heart of the fire, drove through the chaos like a phantom in black, his gun a whisper of death.
Hours passed in a blur of violence and blood.
By dawn, the dust began to settle. Lorenzo's convoy—three armored cars and a bullet-scarred van—returned toward the compound. His hands were stained, jaw set, eyes unreadable as the city shrank behind them.
But just as they reached the outskirts of an abandoned textile factory—used earlier for storage—something unusual broke the quiet.
A muffled scream.
Lorenzo's head snapped up.
"Stop the car," he ordered.
The convoy halted. Guns were drawn. Enzo stepped out beside him, scanning the surroundings.
The sound came again—faint, like someone trying to scream with their mouth shut.
Lorenzo moved fast, following it toward the building. He kicked open the rusted door. Inside, behind a stack of crates, bound to a chair with her mouth taped shut, was a girl.
Young. Disheveled. Terrified.
"Enzo," Lorenzo ordered, his tone sharp.
Without hesitation, Enzo moved in, cutting the rope around her wrists and pulling off the tape from her mouth.
She gasped, eyes wide, body trembling.
"Who are you?" Enzo asked, his tone clipped but not unkind. "What are you doing here?"
Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. There was something... off. Not dangerous—but delicate. Like porcelain caught in a hurricane.
Before she could speak, she looked at Lorenzo—like she saw safety in him, despite the blood still on his hands.
"I-I'm Victoria Hayes," she stammered, her voice cracking. "I don't know how I got here. I was walking home from work... then some men came. I—I don't remember after that..."
Lorenzo's mind froze for a heartbeat. She sounded like prey—lost, scared, misplaced.
Enzo frowned. "Where are you from?"
"London," she whispered. "I'm from England."
Lorenzo's brows furrowed. That wasn't what he expected. Why would someone kidnap a girl from London and leave her here, alone, in the middle of a mafia war zone?
He looked at her again.
There was no blood on her. No signs of resistance. Just wide, terrified eyes and a British accent that didn't match the Sicilian grit around them.
Enzo turned to him, confused. "What the hell is this?"
Lorenzo didn't answer. He simply raised a hand—a subtle command.
"Bring her," he said quietly. Then to the girl, his voice softened, "You'll come with us for now. Until we figure out who you are... and why you were left here."
Victoria hesitated, then nodded.
And just like that, without warning, the first crack in the Valente empire had appeared.
Small.
Silent.
Innocent.
But destruction never roared when it entered. Sometimes... it whispered.
It was a small whisper now...
but who knows when the throne will bleed because of small whisper