Romano Clan
The *Romano Clan's compound* was alive with celebration. Glasses clinked, laughter echoed through the air, and bottles of whiskey flowed like water. They were drunk on their victory — their *first successful hit on the Moretti mansion* — and they believed they had sent a clear message.
They had no idea *Tristan Moretti* was already on the move.
Unlike other Mafia bosses who held meetings, planned revenge weeks ahead, or waited for diplomacy, Tristan was the kind who struck *before the dust even settled*.
Not far from the Romano compound, hidden in the dark shadows of the cliffside, Tristan lay flat on his stomach, *sniper in hand*, eyes sharp behind the scope. *Caleb* knelt beside him, scanning the distance.
"They're too relaxed," Caleb muttered.
"They should be," Tristan replied, lining up the crosshairs. "It's their last night alive."
*BANG.*
The silencer muffled the shot, but the effect was unmistakable. A man standing on the top balcony took the bullet clean through the head — his body crumpling like paper as he *fell to the floor below with a sickening thud.*
The music stopped. Laughter turned to confusion.
Blood pooled around the fallen man's head, and before anyone could react—
*BANG.* Another shot. Another body dropped.
Then a shout ripped through the crowd: "It's a silencer!"
*Panic exploded.* Men scrambled for their guns, knocking over chairs and tables, drinks spilling everywhere. Someone yelled to take cover, but it was already too late.
Tristan fired again. And again.
Meanwhile, his *men were already infiltrating the base from underground*, slipping through secret tunnels like shadows. *Explosives were planted, escape routes blocked*, and the Romano soldiers soon found themselves trapped — like rats in a cage.
The once joyous gathering turned into chaos — bullets flying, screams echoing, smoke and blood filling the air.
One Romano soldier peeked around a wall and muttered, "Who the hell is attacking us?!"
Then he saw the silver wolf mask — a trademark of Moretti's elite assassins — and screamed, "IT'S THE MORETTIS! THEY'RE HERE!"
But by then, it was too late.
Tristan stood and finally descended into the battlefield, walking calmly as if he were on a Sunday stroll. Bodies lay everywhere — some twitching, most still.
A few surviving Romano men were *dragged before him*, bloodied and trembling.
Tristan walked up to one, gun in hand, and asked in a cold, calm voice, "Where is your boss?"
The man stammered, sweat running down his face. "I-I don't know... we—we get orders through calls—"
*BANG.*
Tristan shot him in the head without blinking.
He turned to another captive. "You?"
The second man was already on his knees, crying. "Please... please! We haven't seen him! He gives us orders by phone — we don't even know his real name!"
Tristan raised a brow. "Hiding behind a phone? What a coward you call a boss."
*BANG.*
Another clean shot to the skull.
Caleb approached, wiping blood off his sleeve. "What now?"
Tristan's voice was ice. "No survivors. Burn this place to ash."
He began walking toward the exit, then paused.
"Oh—and find out where that bastard's hiding. I'm not done yet."
As the Moretti men lit the compound with flames, the sky behind them turned red. The same place that had been filled with *cheers and liquor just minutes ago* was now nothing but *smoke, ash, and corpses.*
Adrian, watching the scene on a live feed back at the mansion, shook his head. "Damn. Remind me never to piss off big bro."
Liana, curled up beside him, looked up. "He didn't even flinch..."
Adrian nodded. "That's Tristan. Cold as ice. But effective."
Then added with a smirk, "Also, he stole my dramatic entrance idea."
**
Back in the field, Tristan lit a cigarette, his eyes sharp as the fire danced behind him.
"This," he muttered, "was just the beginning."
---
Saphina sat cross-legged on her bed in her apartment , a mug of hot chocolate in her hand as she stared at the TV screen. The news was reporting a mysterious fire that had completely destroyed a mansion somewhere in Italy. It was all over the place — bold headlines, live coverage, and wild theories from reporters.
*"A terrifying inferno tore through what sources claim to be a Mafia-linked estate. No survivors were found among the charred ruins—"*
Saphina blinked at the screen. "What kind of maniac burns down an entire house with people in it? Psycho," she muttered under her breath, taking another sip.
Just then, her phone buzzed loudly beside her. She jumped a little and nearly spilled her drink. The caller ID flashed:
*"Mr. Moretti."*
Her heart skipped a beat.
"Oh God… What did I do now?" she whispered to herself. "Did I accidentally leave a file open? Forget something? Did I breathe too loudly this morning?"
She inhaled deeply, straightened her hair with her fingers as if he could see her through the phone, and finally answered.
"Hello?" she said, trying to sound casual and professional at once.
There was silence on the other end for a second. Then—
"Hey, Saphina."
That voice. Deep. Smooth. Dangerous. And for some reason, it gave her goosebumps.
*He called my name again,* she thought, clutching her pillow. *Why do I feel like a teenager with a crush? Calm down, woman!*
"Yes, sir?" she replied, voice a little too soft.
"Will you be free tomorrow?"
Her mind scrambled. *Is that a question or a test? Is it a business thing or something else?*
"Uhrmm… Yeah. I think so."
"Good," Tristan said. "I'd like to see you."
Saphina froze. Did he just say he'd like to see her?
Butterflies? No — full-blown *dragons* were doing cartwheels in her stomach now.
"Hello?" Tristan's voice came again.
She blinked. "Y-Yes! Sure. Of course. Tomorrow. I'll be free. Totally free."
"Alright. It's settled then."
And with that, the line disconnected.
Saphina stared at her phone like it had just performed witchcraft. She flopped back on the bed, covering her face with the pillow. "What is happening?! I thought he only called when he needed coffee or contracts signed!"
Meanwhile…
Back at the Moretti estate, Tristan sat alone in his study, phone still in hand, his brow furrowed in thought.
He had just burned down an enemy clan, executed several men, and ordered a cleanup that would make the Devil flinch — but now, sitting in silence, his mind kept drifting to *her.*
*Why did I call her?* he thought.
There were dozens of women who would die for his attention. Yet, he found himself dialing *her* number without thinking.
"What is she doing to me?" he muttered, loosening his tie and staring out the window into the night.
He told himself it was just a casual meeting. Nothing serious. Maybe dinner. Just to unwind.
But deep down, he knew better.
Tristan Moretti never did *casual.*
---