The city hadn't slept in three nights.
Fire still smoldered in the east dockyards, leaving a blackened skeleton where the Wilson family's shipments had once passed like clockwork. The air smelled of ash and gunpowder, and the whispers on the streets spoke one name louder than any other: La Rosa Negra.
Inside her war room, Isabella sat at the head of the table, the chair designed more like a throne than office furniture. Around her, lieutenants pored over maps, reports, and intercepted calls. Her dark eyes scanned everything with chilling calm.
"We've already hit two of their warehouses," one captain said. "The Raccis bled, but it wasn't enough. Vittorio has too much in reserve."
"Then we cut deeper," Isabella replied coldly. Her voice carried no raised tone, yet the room leaned in. "Not warehouses. Not scraps. Their routes, their lines, their people. I want the city to remember what happens when you strike at us."
The elders shifted in their seats, some disapproving. One of them, a silver-haired man named Don Renaldi, cleared his throat.
"This is reckless, Isabella. Retaliation only proves you're too young, too emotional for command."
The table went silent. Even Sebastian, standing like a shadow at Isabella's back, stiffened.
Isabella didn't answer right away. She reached for her glass of water, sipped slowly, then set it down with deliberate calm.
"Don Renaldi," she said softly. "Do you remember what they called me at sixteen?"
The old man swallowed. "…La Rosa Negra."
"And why do you think they gave me that name?" Isabella asked.
Silence.
Her smile was faint, almost polite, but her words cut sharp as glass. "Because every man who thought I was too young, too reckless, too emotional… ended up buried with a rose pinned to his chest. Black, not red. You understand?"
Renaldi's face paled. He looked down, unable to meet her eyes, despite being older he couldn't help but shiver a bit.
Marcus chuckled, leaning back in his chair, his voice carrying the weight of steel. "She's right. You forget she isn't here because of bloodlines. She's here because she earned it and because she fights when the rest of you hide." His gaze swept across the table. "Now, are we going to debate her age, or are we going to bleed the Raccis dry?"
The room went still, and one by one, the murmurs died. Isabella didn't thank Marcus. She didn't need to. The unity in her camp was forged not from kindness, but from fear and respect.
Street War
By nightfall, her orders were already in motion.
Gunfire lit up the streets of Naples. Black SUVs roared down narrow alleys, engines snarling. The Wilson soldiers moved like a tide, striking at Racci-controlled bars, safehouses, and stash points. Windows shattered, men fell, and the once-untouchable Racci empire began to bleed in daylight.
Sebastian led the first strike, his precision frightening. He drove his blade through one man's shoulder, pinned him against a wall, then pressed a gun under his chin. "Send Matteo my regards," he whispered before pulling the trigger.
Not far away, Isabella watched from the backseat of her armored car, her expression unreadable. The chaos outside was her music calculated, controlled, inevitable.
"Message received," Marcus muttered beside her, reloading his pistol. "They'll have to answer this."
"That's the point," Isabella said simply.
Racci Strikes Back
On the opposite side of the city, Matteo Racci finally stepped into the field. He wasn't his father, sitting in smoky boardrooms with a cigar. He was a creature of style, dressed in black silk with gloves too clean for the mess he was about to make.
At his back, fifty men armed with rifles moved like shadows.
"Find them," Matteo ordered. His smile never reached his eyes. "And burn their name from these streets."
The night erupted in a second wave of violence.
Wilson soldiers returning from the raids were ambushed in an abandoned textile factory. Bullets tore through concrete pillars. Men shouted, bled, fell. The screams echoed against the iron rafters.
Sebastian fought like a storm, dragging three men down in close combat, but the Raccis kept coming. He was forced to fall back, teeth gritted, blood streaking his arm.
"They planned this," he snarled as Marcus hauled him behind cover.
Marcus fired two clean shots, dropping attackers with merciless precision. "Of course they did. Vittorio breeds snakes, but his son? His son is worse."
Across the room, Matteo leaned casually against a wall, watching the bloodbath like a spectator at a play. "Beautiful," he murmured, amused by the carnage. When his men dragged in a wounded Wilson soldier, Matteo crouched down, his tone almost tender.
"Tell me, what does your precious Black Rose say now?"
The soldier spat blood at his shoes. Matteo laughed softly then shot him in the head without flinching.
The Aftermath
By dawn, both families had left pieces of themselves scattered across the city. Cars burned. Streets bled. The police looked the other way bought silence was worth more than justice.
Back at the Wilson estate, Isabella stood in the courtyard, her hands wrapped in white bandages from training she had pushed too far. Two soldiers knelt before her, survivors from the ambush.
"Thirty men," one whispered. "We lost thirty in a single night."
Isabella's eyes narrowed, her voice cold and sharp. "And they lost forty. That's thirty more bodies reminding the streets who we are."
The men bowed their heads. They were afraid of her, but they also believed.
Marcus stepped forward, brushing soot from his jacket. "This can't keep up forever, Isabella. Vittorio's bleeding too, but Matteo's just getting started. He enjoys this."
"Good," Isabella said simply. "So do I."
Sebastian, silent until now, clenched his fists. His loyalty was iron, but even he felt the cost. "If we keep answering fire with fire, there'll be nothing left of Naples but ash."
Isabella turned her gaze on him. For a moment, the steel in her softened just slightly. "That's why we choose the fires carefully."
In a dimly lit office across town, Vittorio Racci sat smoking, unmoved by the destruction. Matteo stood at his side, blood still flecked on his gloves.
"They're stronger than we thought," Matteo admitted.
Vittorio exhaled smoke, his tone calm, almost amused. "Good. Strength makes them predictable. We'll push harder, and when the time comes, we'll crush them under the weight of their own pride."
He leaned back, eyes cold as steel.
The war had only just begun.