The warehouse stank of cordite and blood. Smoke hung heavy in rafters. Men screamed, metal rang as chairs and bottles crashed to the floor.
The Santoros fired wildly, muzzle flashes strobing the room. But every shot went nowhere—ricocheting off walls, chewing up splinters, punching holes into shadows.
They were blind.
The shadows returned fire with ruthless accuracy.
---
Enzo walked moving with deadly ease through them. His shotgun cracked again and again, each blast spraying gore across the concrete floor. A man tried to crawl away; he stomped on the man's leg, forcing him to the ground, and fired point-blank.
The man's body jerked once and went limp.
"Street rats," Enzo muttered, reloading without breaking stride. He spat a wad of smoke-tainted saliva onto the corpse. "Squeal all the same when you die."
He lit another cigarette straight after, using the fire from a burning table as his match. He inhaled deeply, shotgun still warm in his other hand. The smoke curled around his head from the burning table.
---
Luca, in contrast, was stillness incarnate.
While Enzo stormed forward, Luca moved sideways, pistol raised at a steady angle. He fired carefully—two to the chest, one to the head. Each shot counted.
He stopped behind an overturned table, glanced at his watch, then signaled with a flick of his fingers. Two soldiers instantly adjusted, cutting off the back exit.
Another Santoro rushed him with a knife, screaming in panic. Luca didn't flinch. He waited until the man was close, then fired once through his throat. The man collapsed, choking on his own blood. Luca stepped over the body without hesitation.
"Keep your lines," he said softly into his radio. His voice was calm, clear, never raised. "No strays. End it quickly."
He spoke calmly, just giving instructions.
That calmness terrified the Santoros more than Enzo's brutality.
---
"Who the fuck are they?!" one of the gangsters cried, crouched behind an overturned barrel. His hands trembled as he tried to reload.
"They're not street trash!" another shouted, firing blind through the smoke. "They move like soldiers!"
Fear spread quickly among the survivors. They weren't drunk anymore. Fear sobered them instantly .
Vito, the leader, fired his pistol into the smoke, then grabbed one of his men by the collar. "Shut the fuck up! They're nobodies! Just nobodies! They don't know who we are!"
But even his voice cracked at the edges.
---
Enzo kicked over a table, sending a Santoro scrambling backward. The gangster raised his pistol, hands shaking.
"Wait! Wait! Let's talk! We didn't mean—"
Enzo fired before he could finish. The blast tore his chest apart, painting the wall red.
Enzo blew the smoke off his barrel, then looked across the room at Luca.
"Talk," he said, mocking. "They always want to talk when the blood's already spilled."
Luca didn't answer. He only shot another man trying to reach the stairs.
---
The Santoros' resistance crumbled fast. They had numbers at first--fifty, maybe more. Now bodies littered the floor, half of them already still. The survivors huddled behind cover, too afraid to peek out.
"Boss, we can't win this," one of them whispered to Vito. His voice was hoarse, shaking. "We gotta surrender. Whoever they are, they're bigger than us."
Vito's face was pale under the flickering lights. Sweat poured down his brow. He glanced at the shadows moving with military grace, then at Enzo's feral grin, Luca's cold precision.
He swallowed hard.
Then he stood, raising his pistol high, shouting.
"STOP! STOP! We yield!"
The gunfire slowed. A heavy silence fell over the room. Only smoke and the moans of the dying filled the air.
Luca lowered his pistol a fraction, watching. His expression didn't change.
Enzo tilted his head, cigarette glowing, shotgun resting casually on his shoulder.
"Yield?" he repeated. His voice was mocking, cruel. "You think this is a game? You spit on us, beat our men, and now you want mercy?"
Vito shook his head frantically. He threw his pistol down, raising his trembling hands. "We didn't know! I swear we didn't know who they were. We thought they were just nobodies—street rats. Please, it was a mistake!"
Enzo's grin spread wide, cruel. He stepped closer, boots shattered glass underfoot. "And now you know."
Luca raised a hand. Enzo stopped mid-step, glaring, but obeyed.
The calm cousin approached instead, lowering his pistol slightly. His eyes were dead, unreadable.
"Which one of you is Vito Santoro?" he asked quietly.
Vito's heart slammed in his chest. "I—I am."
Luca nodded once. "Good. You live."
Enzo raised a brow. "What?"
"Alive," Luca said simply. He turned to his men. "Bag him. The rest—"
His hand flicked down.
Gunfire erupted one last time. The warehouse filled with final screams, then silence.
Vito stood trembling, his ears ringing, as the last of his men dropped around him. He was grabbed, dragged backward, blindfold shoved over his eyes.
His trembled uncontrollably. Who the hell are these people? What did we do?
---
The van door slammed shut. Vito sat bound, blindfolded, gagged. The city blurred outside the van, but he couldn't see it. All he could hear was the calm voice of Luca and the ruthless chuckle of Enzo.
"We should've left him in pieces," Enzo muttered, lighting another cigarette. Smoke filled the van, thick and choking. "He doesn't deserve breath."
"He deserves to be useful," Luca replied evenly. "The boss decides. Not us."
"The boss," Vito thought, terror flooding him. If these are his man, what kind of men commands them?
---
Meanwhile, in the quiet park, a man sat alone on a bench. He stared the sky, expressionless.
Finally, peace, he thought. For once, I can just sit without trouble.
Two bodyguards lingered at a distance, hidden in shadow. To him, it felt like they'd only given him space, keeping away to let him breathe. He had no idea his cousins had left with the rest of the men, turning the streets into a killing ground.
If he had known, his heart would have stopped with fear. He wasn't untouchable. He wasn't fearless. Inside, he was still human—still afraid of death.
But to the world, to everyone watching, "He" remained motionless, as if untouched by the chaos nearby.
And now, a trembling gangster was on his way to kneel before him