Chapter 30: The War Begins

Leo staggered out onto the ruined roof of Marco's east-side penthouse, boots crunched on shattered glass and buckled steel, the debris scattered like bones across the battered purple sky—dawn's earliest light seeped faintly through thick smoke, glinting off jagged shards and the twisted wreckage of a swaying chandelier hung from a broken beam. The air tasted bitter—gunpowder charred his nostrils, choking tang mixed with the pungent smell of seared leather and the keen sting of spilled blood on concrete, congealing in shallow crevices—damn it—war—Gia—damn her—loosed—whose blood? —damn them all. Cannon boomed underneath—far off—feral—shuddering the building's foundations, while gusts howled through gaping tears in the glass walls, making free wires tangle and crackle faintly—damn Serpents—damn scoundrels—damn it—strongholds struck—whose? —raging fires devoured the skyline, orange tongues clutching the black—Marco's—his—hell—disappeared? His leather jacket flapped tattered—cold, damp—its musky smell overpowered by the rooftop's rot, a demented heat ripping through his torn shirt, stroking the scabbed blood along his ribs—hell docks—hell Serpents—hell it—raw—pitiless—Ezra—Vito—hell them—where? —alive?

—hell it—whose fight? His chest burned—damn wolf—damn bond—damn Marco—fever raged deep, burning fire twisting his ribs, tearing his lungs—Marco's whisper—"Perhaps that's what he desires"—damn him—blazing from the locked room—hours ago—damn it—decision—whose? —now? He snapped his Zippo—flame spat—lit a cigarette, blowing smoke to soothe hands shaking with rage and madness—car bomb—Ezra's truth—damn them—ringing—war—here—now. His phone—dead—6:43 a.m., March 07, 2025—last checked—damn it—imprisoned—with him—still. Shadows moved, the forms twisting the skin on the back of Leo's neck. Shit, the First Bloods. Attired in billowy black robes, their yellow eyes glowed with an unhuman light in the smoke-darkened air. Shit, they had come out onto the roof, moving silently and inexorably, night hunters.

Whose were they? Marco stood next to him, the silk shirt on his chest shredded, his claws stained with blood. Damn him, he snarled, his voice a low, guttural growl. "Too late," he said, his anger clear. Damn it, he was steady, focused, even in the face of this devastating threat. A First Blood stepped forward, their voice cold and without emotion. "Bond unsealed. Die." Damn it, these were older wolves, ancient and powerful. Damn them, they moved, their claws and teeth bared, ready to strike. Damn it, the war was intensifying. Gia and the Serpents, and now the First Bloods. Damn her, whose laws were they following? Leo's voice was hoarse, his face reddened with rage and fear.

"No!" he shouted, his cry on the chaos. Marco surged forward, his claws flashed in the air. "Fight!" he shouted, his cry a war shout. Damn it, there was blood sprayed, a red against the night's black. Damn them, whose demise would this be? And then Vito was present, yanked into view, almost dead. Damn it, his bloody flannel shirt was wet with blood, the chest wound an open, grotesque horror. Damn him, he pulled Leo into a corner, his fragile but unyielding grip keeping him there. Kid, he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes going. Damn it, he was dying quickly. "Truth. father. First Bloods," he managed, his voice breaking. Damn him, what's he saying? Father? Damn it, what is this legacy? Leo's voice was an amalgam of anger and sorrow. "What?

Damn you!" he snarled, his emotions a frenzied vortex. Damn it, Vito's voice trailed off, his words a whisper. "You… them… damn it," he gasped, his lids shutting. Damn it, whose blood was on his hands? Damn it, his father, a hunter? Damn it, whose fate was he now bound to?

The disclosures hit him, a storm of truth and falsehood, and he staggered through the whirlwind of the rooftop battle.

Ezra stormed into the room, his painter-tinted jeans and demented, wild hazel eyes a stark contrast to the clinical steel walls. "Run, Leo now!" he yelled, his cracked, strained voice rasping. To hell with him, he was begging, desperation contaminating the words. "Too late otherwise, lose you," he panted out, fingers shaking, face pale with no blood in it. "Dammit, live, please," he implored in a soft whisper, almost an appeal.

Damn him, why had it hurt so to hear him say that to her? Leo's voice broke, a raw mix of anger and doubt. "Run? Damn him," he snarled, his head reeling. Damn it, the chemistry was crackling, the wolf within him snarling, a wild mix of emotions. Damn them both, whose choice was this? Marco turned, his eyes black and sharp, his face impassive. "You choose tonight," he told him, his voice flat, but tinged with steel. "Me, Ezra, or incinerate us both." Shit, the man was so flat, so controlled, even now, when their world was coming apart at the seams. Shit, whose partner was he? Whose mortality would be the cost of this impossible choice?

Shit, the fever burned, a flame that consumed him from the inside out. Damn them, whose truth was he supposed to believe? The location shifted, a staggering bound to the rooftop. Anarchy reigned, thick smoke pouring, shrouding the already fragile light of the city. Damn it, the air was thick with tension, the pungent sting of gunpowder and burnt debris scorching his nostrils. A gunshot tore through the anarchy, the rigid report ringing out across the night. Someone stumbled, the body thudding on the rooftop with a sickening crack.

Damn, whose was it?undefinedWhose had got caught in the crossfire?undefinedThe rooftop was a battle-scarred landscape, a wild chaos of smoke and gloom.undefinedThe city lights that had once gleamed so reassuringly were now a muddied, hazy background to the carnage happening.The tension hung in the air, the heavy scent of menace unspoken, and death acrid. Leo's mind spun, trying to put the fragments of information, the betrayals, the hidden agendas together.undefinedDamn it, he was trapped, caught in a web of conflicting loyalties and wants, with no apparent direction to move.forward.The choice confronting him was agonizing, a bitter twist of fortune which appeared to be able to consume him entirely.forward.The question remained hanging in the smoke-filled air: whose ruin was it?