Blood In The Water
The black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the edge of the private docks just as the last rays of sun dipped below the skyline. The air smelled like salt, gasoline, and quiet tension. Adriano stepped out of the car slowly, dressed in black slacks and a matching button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The light ocean breeze ruffled his blonde curls, but his sharp eyes didn’t waver.
His boots echoed against the concrete as he walked toward the docking station—the area reserved for “after-hours” shipments. The place should’ve been humming with controlled chaos: men unloading crates, hushed voices, the low grumble of engines. But instead, it was silent.
Too silent.
Adriano stopped dead in his tracks as the metallic tang of blood hit his nose.
Then he saw it.
Bodies.
Eight of his soldiers—young, loyal, trusted men—were lying on the ground in grotesque shapes. Their blood stained the concrete. One of them still had his eyes open, wide and glassy with the horror he’d witnessed. Another was facedown near a stack of crates that had been burst open, their contents—plastic-wrapped bricks of cocaine—scattered across the ground.
Adriano didn’t move at first.
His breath caught in his chest as a thick, heavy wave of disbelief washed over him.
No… no, no, no.
From behind one of the storage units, Luca appeared. His hoodie was stained with blood—not his own—and he was muttering curses under his breath as he helped Marco drag a body toward the edge. Serena stood nearby with a tablet in her hands, scanning, watching, her expression eerily calm in contrast to the scene around her. A few other members of The Red Devils worked silently in the background, disposing of bodies and scanning for evidence.
Adriano finally snapped out of his daze and stormed toward them.
“What the fuck happened?” he barked, his voice cracking the silence like a gunshot.
Luca looked up first. “Shipment was hijacked,” he said grimly. “These guys were already down when we got here.”
Adriano’s nostrils flared. “When did you get here?”
“About twenty minutes ago,” Serena replied without looking up. “I got an alert from one of our surveillance drones when movement in the area stopped. We came straight here.”
Adriano’s eyes darted back to the bodies. One of them—Joey, barely twenty-three—had joined them only last month. A street kid who’d proven himself. Now his throat was slashed, his blood still fresh, still soaking into the concrete.
Adriano ran a hand through his hair, pacing, shaking his head like the motion could somehow reorder the scene. His heart was pounding against his ribs, and beneath the sharp, searing anger was something colder. Something worse.
Helplessness.
This wasn’t just an attack. This was a message.
“Who could’ve done this?” he growled, his voice low but deadly.
“We already know,” Serena said, finally locking eyes with him.
Adriano stopped pacing. His eyes narrowed.
“How?” he demanded.
Serena didn’t answer right away. She simply turned and walked toward one of the bodies—Carlos, a heavyset soldier who had been with Adriano even before Alessandro came. The man’s body was riddled with bullet holes, soaked in blood. But what made Adriano's stomach turn was what was carved into his chest.
Three words, jagged and deliberate:
IL SERPENTE DORATO
Adriano stared at the letters, the knife lines crude but deep, etched like a brand onto Carlos’s skin.
His jaw tightened.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white.
Luca moved beside him, quietly. “You know what this means.”
Adriano didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The words were a taunt. A scarlet signature.
It was one thing to kill his men.
But to mark them? To brand them with the name of the very family Adriano was born into?
That wasn’t just murder.
That was betrayal.
That was war.
The wind howled softly around them, rustling the edge of a torn tarp.
Adriano’s voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Controlled.
But his eyes were pure fire.
He said one word.
Just one.
“Alessandro.”