Blood on the Water
The docks reeked of salt and oil, the night air heavy with mist that curled low across the water. Cargo ships loomed in the distance like sleeping beasts, their lights blinking faintly against the horizon.
But the men on the ground weren't asleep. Dante's soldiers patrolled the piers in twos and threes, rifles slung across their backs, cigarettes glowing faintly in the dark. They laughed, cursed, spat into the sea. They thought the night was theirs.
They were wrong.
From the shadows of a rusted warehouse, Lucian Moretti watched them through narrowed eyes. His shoulder burned under the bandage, but he ignored it, his mind sharper than the blade at his belt. Around him, his men crouched in silence, every breath measured.
Alessandro leaned close. "Boss. Word is Dante's storing half his shipments here. Drugs. Guns. Money. If we hit this right—"
Lucian's voice cut through the dark like steel. "We don't just hit it. We gut it. Leave nothing standing."
His men's eyes gleamed. They lived for this—the storm before the slaughter.
Lucian's gaze fixed on the patrol. He pictured Elena's face, pale with fear, Isabella's tiny arms clutching her mother's dress. He pictured Carlo's sneer before the bullet silenced him.
And then he pictured Dante, smiling as he vowed to take them away.
Lucian's jaw clenched. His rage sharpened into precision.
He raised his hand.
"Kill them all."
---
The docks erupted in chaos.
Silencers hissed first—clean shots dropping patrolmen before they could even scream. Their bodies crumpled into the water with soft splashes, swallowed by the black tide. Then came the thunder.
Gunfire lit the night, sparks flying as bullets tore through crates and steel. Lucian moved like a predator unleashed, his pistol an extension of his hand. Every shot found flesh, every movement lethal. His men followed, spreading like shadows across the pier.
The enemy scrambled, shouting, returning fire. But Lucian's attack was too fast, too merciless. One by one, Dante's soldiers fell, their blood staining the wood, seeping into the water until the sea itself seemed to bleed.
A grenade exploded, shaking the dock. Flames roared as crates of weapons ignited, sparks soaring into the night sky. The scent of burning gunpowder mixed with salt and smoke, a baptism of fire on the open water.
Lucian pressed forward, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder. A man lunged at him from behind a stack of barrels—Lucian twisted, drove his knife deep into his gut, then shoved him screaming into the sea.
This wasn't a battle. It was an execution.
---
From a rooftop, Alessandro barked orders into his comms. "Sweep the east side! Don't let a single bastard crawl away alive!"
"Boss," one of the men called, "the warehouse is loaded. Money, shipments, records—Dante's whole operation runs through here!"
Lucian's eyes flicked to the looming structure at the end of the pier. Flames licked its edges already, smoke curling out from shattered windows.
"Burn it."
The order came without hesitation.
His men moved fast, tossing Molotovs through the open frames. The fire caught instantly, racing across wooden beams, devouring everything inside. Paperwork burst into ash, stacks of cash curled into blackened scraps. The heat grew unbearable, the glow turning night into day.
Lucian watched it all, chest heaving, eyes reflecting the inferno. This was more than revenge—it was war made holy. Every flame was a promise, every scream a hymn.
Dante would feel this loss. He would bleed money, power, loyalty. And Lucian would keep cutting until there was nothing left.
---
But even as victory roared around him, Lucian felt the edge of unease.
This strike had been too easy.
Too clean.
Where was Dante's counterattack? Where was the ambush?
A shout cut through the night. "Boss! We've got something!"
Two of his men dragged a survivor from the wreckage—a young soldier, face bloodied, clothes singed. They threw him at Lucian's feet, forcing him onto his knees.
Lucian crouched, gripping the man's chin with cold fingers. "Where's Dante? Where was he tonight?"
The soldier spat blood, defiant even in terror. "He… he knew you'd come."
Lucian's stomach sank.
The man's lips curled into a broken grin. "This was never about the docks. He wanted you out here. Away from her."
Her.
Elena.
Lucian's heart slammed against his ribs. He surged to his feet, his voice a roar. "Move! Everyone, back to the estate—NOW!"
But even as he shouted, distant explosions lit the sky to the west.
The direction of his home.
---
Back at the mansion, Elena jolted awake to the sound of alarms. Isabella stirred, whimpering in her sleep.
"Elena!" One of Lucian's guards burst into the room, pale with panic. "We're under attack—another wave of Dante's men! The boss isn't here—we have to move you, now!"
Elena's blood ran cold.
She clutched Isabella, pulling her from the bed. "No—no, he promised this place was safe!"
The guard grabbed her arm. "We don't have time. If they breach—"
Glass shattered somewhere below. Gunfire cracked, shouts rising in the night.
Elena's heart thundered as she hugged Isabella close. For the second time in days, their home was no longer theirs.
And Lucian wasn't here to protect them.
---
Back at the docks, Lucian's roar echoed into the flames as he gunned down the survivor where he knelt.
Rage burned hotter than the fire consuming Dante's empire. He had thought this strike was his war cry, his proof of dominance.
But Dante had outplayed him.
Lucian sprinted for the car, Alessandro at his heels. "Get us there!" he snarled. "If he touches her—if he touches Isabella—"
The thought was poison in his veins.
Lucian Moretti had razed empires, built kingdoms of blood. But for the first time in years, he felt something colder than rage.
He felt fear.