Fire on the Water
The night air stank of salt, oil, and rust.
Lucian crouched in the shadows of the dockyard, his men fanned out behind crates and containers, waiting for his signal. The vast expanse of the harbor stretched before them—towering cranes, stacks of cargo, ships swaying gently against the pier. It looked almost peaceful.
But tonight, it would burn.
Alessandro whispered at his side, scanning through binoculars. "We count thirty men on guard. Armed, but scattered. Dante's not here himself—just his operation."
Lucian's jaw tightened. "Then we cut off his arms, one by one, until he's nothing but a head waiting for the blade."
He rose, black coat whispering in the wind, and signaled with two fingers. His men moved like shadows, silent and efficient.
A nervous soldier asked, "Boss, what do we do with the cargo? Some of it's legit trade. Not all Dante's."
Lucian's voice was steel. "If it's on his docks, it burns."
The soldier swallowed hard and nodded.
Lucian's gaze swept the harbor one last time. Then he raised his fist and dropped it.
"Light it up."
---
The first explosion shattered the night. A shipping container burst into flames, the fire leaping skyward with a roar. Alarms blared, guards shouted, chaos spread like wildfire.
Lucian strode forward into the open, pistols drawn. His men followed, raining bullets on the scrambling guards. Screams echoed across the docks, blending with the hiss of flames devouring steel.
Lucian's aim was merciless. Every shot dropped a man. His coat flared with his movements, his face carved with fury. To his enemies, he wasn't human—he was death in tailored black.
Alessandro hurled a Molotov into a warehouse window. The glass shattered, and moments later the building erupted, fire swallowing crates and machinery alike. The acrid smoke rolled across the water, staining the night sky.
Guards tried to regroup, firing from cover. But Lucian's men were relentless. One by one, Dante's soldiers fell, their cries drowned in the thunder of destruction.
Lucian reloaded, stepping over a dying man who reached weakly toward him. He didn't slow, didn't blink. His rage gave him purpose. Every bullet was for Elena. For Isabella. For the sanctity of a home Dante had dared to violate.
---
On the far end of the docks, a small ship prepared to flee, engines rumbling. Lucian's sharp gaze caught the shadowy figures loading crates aboard.
"Stop them!" he barked.
His men opened fire. Bullets tore across the pier, sparks flying as they struck metal. One crate exploded, scattering weapons across the deck. The ship groaned under the assault, smoke pouring from its hull.
Lucian sprinted down the pier, dodging fire, his gun steady. He shot the helmsman through the skull, then hurled himself onto the deck. The soldiers aboard lunged, knives flashing, but Lucian was faster. He moved like a storm—twisting, striking, each shot and blow fatal.
Blood slicked the boards. The last soldier tried to leap overboard, but Lucian caught him by the collar, dragging him back with brutal strength.
"Where's Dante?" Lucian snarled, pressing the barrel of his gun against the man's temple.
The soldier spat blood, defiant even in fear. "He's coming for you. For your woman. For your kid. You can burn this dock, Moretti, but you'll never stop him."
Lucian's eyes went cold. "I already have."
The shot was final. The body splashed into the black water below.
---
From the pier, Alessandro shouted, "Boss! We've cleared the last of them!"
Lucian turned, scanning the blazing inferno he had unleashed. Warehouses burned, ships sank, steel melted. The docks that once fed Dante's empire were nothing but ash and ruin.
But victory tasted hollow.
This wasn't the end.
Dante was still out there. Watching. Waiting.
Lucian stepped off the ship, his boots echoing against the scorched wood. His men gathered, their faces alight with triumph.
"It's done," Alessandro said.
Lucian shook his head. "No. This is only the beginning."
He looked back at the towering flames, the reflection dancing in his eyes. "Tonight was fire. Tomorrow will be blood."
---
Across the city, Elena sat awake by Isabella's bedside, listening to the distant rumble of explosions. Her chest tightened with every echo.
She knew. She didn't need to see it. Lucian was out there, drowning the world in fire.
And with every step he took deeper into vengeance, she feared she was losing him—piece by piece—to the devil he had sworn he wasn't.
She kissed Isabella's forehead, whispering a prayer into the child's hair.
God, please… don't let vengeance take the man I love.
---
Far from both, in a hidden suite lit by a single lamp, Dante Marino watched the dockyard blaze from a live feed on his laptop.
Instead of anger, he smiled.
"Good," he murmured, sipping his wine. "Burn, Moretti. Burn it all. The more fire you set, the easier it will be to watch you choke on the smoke."
His fingers brushed the photograph of Elena and Isabella.
"You've shown me exactly where to strike."