The next morning, the rain had stopped—but the air over Brooklyn still felt heavy, like the city was holding its breath.
Luca Moretti stood before the tall windows of the Moretti estate, watching the gray clouds drift slowly above the skyline of New York City. From here, everything looked peaceful. Ferries moved calmly across the water. Traffic hummed in the distance. People lived their lives without knowing how close they were to war.
Behind him, the long dining table was filled with men in dark suits.
Capos. Soldiers. Advisors.
Family.
Don Alessandro sat at the head of the table, silent, his fingers resting lightly against a glass of untouched whiskey.
"The Russos are denying everything," said Vittorio Mancini, one of the older capos. "They say Marco acted alone."
Luca remained still.
"That's a lie," another man spat. "Nobody steals ten million without permission."
Don Alessandro finally spoke. "Permission or not, they are testing us."
The room went quiet.
Luca felt their eyes on him. Word of what happened at the docks had already spread. Some looked at him with respect. Others with calculation.
"You pulled the trigger," Vittorio said, studying Luca carefully. "Tell us—did he confess?"
Luca's voice was steady. "He said it wasn't him."
A murmur passed through the room.
"And you believed him?" Vittorio pressed.
Luca turned slowly to face him. "It didn't matter what I believed."
The silence deepened.
Don Alessandro nodded slightly. "Good. Belief is for civilians. We deal in certainty."
A phone buzzed on the table.
All eyes shifted.
One of the younger soldiers picked it up, listened for a moment, and then stiffened.
"They hit one of our warehouses in Queens," he said. "Two men dead."
The room exploded into overlapping voices.
"They've declared war!"
"Then we strike first!"
"We burn their casinos to the ground!"
Don Alessandro raised his hand. Instantly, the room fell silent again.
"No," the Don said calmly. "We do not react with emotion. That is how empires fall."
His gaze shifted to Luca.
"You wanted responsibility," he said quietly. "Now you have it."
Luca felt the weight of the moment settle over him.
"You will oversee retaliation," the Don continued. "Clean. Precise. No chaos."
Some of the older men shifted uncomfortably. Luca noticed.
"You think he's too young," Vittorio said openly.
"I think," Luca replied before his uncle could speak, "that if we wait, we look weak."
The room went still again.
Luca stepped closer to the table. "They hit Queens because they think we'll hesitate. So we don't. We take something they value."
"And what would that be?" Vittorio asked.
Luca didn't hesitate.
"Anthony Russo."
A ripple of surprise passed through the men.
Anthony Russo wasn't just a soldier. He was the heir to the Russo empire.
Kidnapping him wouldn't just hurt.
It would humiliate.
Don Alessandro studied Luca carefully. For a moment, there was no uncle in his eyes—only a Don evaluating a subordinate.
"Bring him to me alive," the Don said finally.
Luca nodded once.
Across the East River, in a precinct office near Central Park, Detective Isabella Reyes stared at photographs spread across her desk.
Two dead men in Queens.
Execution-style.
She leaned back in her chair.
"This isn't random," her partner said. "This is organized."
"It's escalation," Isabella replied. "The Morettis and the Russos."
"You think they're at war?"
"I think," she said, closing the folder slowly, "we're about to watch this city bleed."
Her phone rang.
An anonymous tip.
A name.
Anthony Russo.
Isabella's expression changed.
If the Morettis moved on the Russo heir, the streets would ignite.
And she knew one thing for certain.
Luca Moretti had crossed a line last night.
Now he was stepping into something much bigger than a dockside execution.
That evening, Luca stood on the rooftop of a quiet apartment building in Brooklyn, watching the entrance below.
Anthony Russo exited the building laughing, unaware of the men positioned in the shadows.
Luca adjusted his gloves.
"Remember," he told his crew calmly, "no bullets unless necessary."
The city lights flickered behind them. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.
New York was alive.
But tonight, it belonged to predators.
As Anthony stepped toward his car, the van screeched around the corner.
Doors burst open.
Masks.
Chaos.
Anthony fought back harder than expected, landing a punch that split one of Luca's men's lips. But within seconds, he was restrained.
Their eyes met.
"You," Anthony breathed.
Luca said nothing.
The van doors slammed shut.
As they sped into the night, Luca felt something shift inside him.
There was no going back now.
This wasn't about loyalty anymore.
This was strategy.
And war had officially begun.