The night air was thick with smoke and the stench of gunpowder, sweat, and blood. Broken glass crunched underfoot, flames from overturned cars reflected in shattered storefront windows, and the wail of distant sirens barely pierced the roar of the battle. The Nunca-Caer Family gang was fighting with everything they had, but numbers were against them. Reinforcements had arrived, yes, but the Riviera Vipers had shaked hands with the Crimson Jackals, the third power in the town and together, they had brought an army, and every wave of attackers seemed endless.
Through the chaos, two figures stepped forward like predators, drawing the eyes of everyone on the battlefield. First was Salvatore "The Fang" Vitello, leader of the Riviera Vipers. He moved with calm control, every step careful and deliberate, as if he owned the street. Tall and lean, his body was strong but built for speed and precision. His black hair was slicked back, showing a scar running from his temple to his cheek, and his dark brown eyes scanned everything, looking for weaknesses.
He wore a black Italian-style suit, crisp and sharp, with a white shirt underneath. Over it, a black trench coat flowed slightly as he walked, giving him an almost ghostly presence. Fingerless gloves showed his strong forearms, and a gold chain and silver watch glinted in the dim light. Even at night, he looked untouchable, and when he spoke, his deep, calm voice made men pause.
Behind him came Luca Morano, the leader of the Crimson Jackals. He was bigger and stronger, with wide shoulders and heavy muscles that made him look unstoppable. His short black hair and grey eyes gave him a cold, dangerous look. Scars on his arms and knuckles told of countless fights, and a crimson jackal tattoo wrapped around his forearm.
Luca wore a dark red sleeveless leather jacket with black pants and combat boots, ready for action. A red bandana around his neck added to his fierce look. Fingerless gloves revealed his hands, strong enough to fight with knives or bare hands. He moved like a predator, ready to strike at anyone who came too close.
Together, they were terrifying. Salvatore was calm and sharp, like a shadow, while Luca was wild and powerful, like a storm. Their men followed closely, looking to them for orders. Salvatore gave a small nod, and his soldiers moved into position. Luca growled low, and his men surged forward, ready for chaos.
Even in the middle of the fight, it was clear: these two were the top bosses. Any enemy in their path would quickly learn why the Riviera Vipers and the Crimson Jackals ruled the streets.
For every man a Nunca-Caer killed, three more surged forward. The streets of Kearny had become a living nightmare.
Matt's coat, black and torn, flapped against his blood-soaked body. Cuts streaked across his arms, his chest, and his face. A bullet had grazed his right arm earlier, another nicked his left thigh. Every breath was a battle; his body screamed, but his eyes burned with unbroken resolve.
He moved with the precision of a man trained in Krav Maga and Filipino Kali, hybrid strikes aimed to incapacitate quickly. A Viper lunged with a baseball bat. Matt sidestepped, pivoting, grabbed the attacker's wrist, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him into the asphalt. The man groaned, clutching a shattered shoulder.
Another approached with a knife. Matt blocked with his forearm, felt the searing pain as the blade cut shallowly, and retaliated with a spinning back kick that sent the assailant crashing into a fire hydrant.
His Desert Eagle was empty. His combat knife dulled. Each strike cost him more than before; but still he fought.
"Shayla… I'm sorry I didn't keep my word," he thought, kneeling momentarily to catch his breath, vision blurring.
Brian, 6'4", built like a mountain, moved with lethal precision beside Shayla and Kiel. His fists, knees, and elbows struck with the power of Muay Thai, enhanced by years of training under Matt. He blocked a machete swipe aimed at Kiel, twisting the blade into the attacker's ribs and sending him sprawling.
"Get them out, now!" Brian shouted over the roar of chaos, grabbing Kiel and Shayla by the shoulders. They weaved through the carnage, ducking under swinging bats, knives, and debris. Brian's eyes were icy, calculating, yet protective, the only wall between the young heir, his mother, and the storm of enemies.
—
Kiel, just sixteen, immature, not trained in the art of killing, had to learn it in the worst possible moment; one wherein his life was at stake. He rolled under a knife swing, felt the air whip past his ear, and countered with a low sweep kick, toppling the attacker. Another lunged; he pivoted, delivering a sidekick to the chest, then an elbow to the jaw. He moved like water, but struck like stone just as Brian had instructed him earlier, but exhaustion pulled at him. In the end, he was only a teenager, with a teenage body. He had done well holding his ground against matured men; the adrenaline was wearing off. "Fuck it" he swore as a punch landed on his face
Every breath scorched his lungs. Every movement burned muscles he had honed for years, yet he survived because training was his inheritance. Brian kept a vigilant eye, covering his flank as Kiel executed maneuver after maneuver, keeping his assaulters at bay.
Shayla on the other hand was calm in the storm. Twin pistols in hand, her marksmanship was deadly accurate. Every shot was head or chest, precision honed from years in a mafia household. She moved fluidly between cover, firing, ducking, spinning, and striking.
An attacker charged from the side, Shayla backflipped, landing smoothly, and snapped two more rounds into his chest. Another lunged, she swept his legs, kicked him into a streetlight, and shot him again to ensure he didn't rise. Aikido and combat pistol training made her a nightmare for anyone foolish enough to confront her.
---
The Nunca-caers were bleeding out fast. Bodies littered the streets. Reinforcements could barely keep pace.
"Damn it! Everyone retreat!" Matt roared, voice raw, echoing through the smoke-filled streets.
But it was too late for him. Surrounded, bleeding, and out of ammunition, he fought tooth and nail, parrying knives, dodging broken bottles, and striking anyone foolish enough to approach. For a moment, it seemed he might still carve a path through, but every move was slower now, every breath a struggle.
Brian grabbed Kiel and Shayla. "Move! Now!"
They ducked into the shadows, weaving through alleys and fire-lit streets, escaping the carnage, but every step away carried the weight of leaving Matt behind.
---
Matt's enemies, perhaps respecting the legend he was, dropped their firearms, moving in with knives, glass, and fists. Matt, though crippled and exhausted, met them head-on, fighting like stone incarnate. His resolve was yet unyielding even in the face of inexorable defeat. He
threw blows, tanked hits.
"Is this all you've got?" He barked with a psychopathic smile on his face. "Show me why you are Vipers and jackals" Matt roared as his fist met one's face knocking the gangster out onto the cold tar.
The circle around him tightened. A man with a shard of brown bottle lunged, stabbing it forward. Matt didn't block it. He let the glass sink into the meat of his shoulder, a grunt hissing through his teeth. His left hand, now a bloody vice, clamped over the man's wrist, crushing the bones. With his right, he drove his palm upwards, a brutal, short blow that smashed the attacker's nose into a pulp of cartilage and blood. The man staggered back, screaming, but Matt held on, twisting the arm until the man fell, his own weapon now sticking out of his thigh.
Another came from behind, wrapping an arm around his neck. Matt dropped his weight, becoming a dead load, and drove his elbow backwards again and again. He felt ribs crack like dry twigs under the impact. The hold loosened, and Matt spun, his forehead meeting the bridge of the man's nose with a wet, final crunch. The man was unconscious before he hit the ground.
But they kept coming. A knife sliced across his back, parting fabric and skin. Fire bloomed along his spine, but he embraced the pain, letting it fuel him. He turned, his face a mask of grime and blood, his eyes burning with a terrifying, serene light. The man with the knife faltered, his eyes wide with a fear that wasn't there before. He wasn't fighting a man anymore; he was fighting a force of nature in its final, violent throes.