The sea was restless that night, waves crashing against the rusted hulls of cargo ships moored along the pier. The air smelled of salt, oil, and danger. Damian stood at the edge of the dock, the wind tugging at his coat, his eyes fixed on the maze of containers stacked like tombstones in the dark.
Luca crouched beside a crate, scanning the area through a pair of night‑vision binoculars. "Two guards at the north gate, three more by the warehouse entrance. No sign of the crimson mask."
"He won't show himself," Damian said. "Not yet. He'll send others to bleed first."
Behind them, Rocco and two men from the Palermo crew waited for orders, their weapons concealed beneath their jackets.
Damian's voice was calm, almost detached. "We move in pairs. No gunfire unless necessary. We're here for information, not bodies."
Luca nodded. "And if we find The Circle's shipment?"
"Burn it."
They split up, shadows dissolving into the labyrinth of steel and fog. Damian moved silently between the containers, his senses sharpened by the rhythm of the rain. Every sound—the creak of metal, the distant hum of engines—felt amplified.
He reached the warehouse door and pressed his ear against it. Voices murmured inside, low and hurried. He signaled to Luca, who joined him moments later. Together, they slipped through the side entrance.
Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit by a few hanging bulbs. Wooden crates lined the walls, each marked with the same symbol—a circle intersected by a dagger. Damian pried one open. Inside were weapons, stacks of cash, and documents sealed in plastic.
Luca whistled under his breath. "They're rebuilding faster than we thought."
Damian flipped through the papers, his eyes narrowing. "Shipping manifests. Routes through Naples, Palermo, Marseille… and here." He tapped a line of coordinates. "They've been using our own ports."
A sudden noise echoed from the far end of the warehouse. Footsteps.
Damian motioned for silence. They ducked behind a stack of crates as two men entered, speaking in hushed tones.
"…the boss said the transfer happens tomorrow. The Moretti estate first, then the monastery."
Damian's pulse quickened. The monastery.
He stepped out from the shadows, gun raised. "Who's your boss?"
The men froze. One reached for his weapon, but Luca fired first, a single shot to the leg. The man collapsed, screaming.
Damian grabbed the other by the collar, pressing the barrel of his gun beneath his chin. "The crimson mask—where is he?"
The man's eyes darted wildly. "You don't understand. He's not…"
Before he could finish, a shot rang out from the mezzanine. The man's body went limp in Damian's grip, blood blooming across his chest.
Luca spun toward the upper level. "Sniper!"
They dove for cover as bullets tore through the air, shattering glass and splintering wood.
Damian rolled behind a crate, returning fire toward the shadows above. The sniper's silhouette flickered briefly before disappearing into the storm.
When the gunfire ceased, the warehouse was silent again except for the rain. The second man was gone, dragged away or fled into the night.
Luca cursed. "They knew we were coming."
Damian holstered his weapon, his expression unreadable. "No. They wanted us to come."
He looked down at the dead man, then at the crates marked with The Circle's emblem.
"This wasn't a shipment. It was a message."
Luca frowned. "What kind of message?"
Damian's gaze hardened. "That they're already inside my walls."
Thunder rolled across the harbor as he turned toward the exit. The rain washed the blood from his hands, but not the weight from his chest.
Somewhere beyond the docks, the crimson mask was watching—and waiting.
And Damian Moretti knew the next move would cost him more than blood.