114

114
In a discreet backroom in an underground club in Naples, Antonio sat alone, his hood pulled low and his phone untraceable. The glow of a single screen illuminated his face as he leaned forward, fingers poised over the encrypted messaging terminal.

The moment was deliberate and calculated.

He knew what he was about to do would start a war — but it wasn’t his war to fight. Not directly. It was the type of war that was to his advantage. 

It was about sending a message… and watching the chaos unfold.

He copied the final line of the drafted message and pasted it into the body of the email. Then he encrypted it again. Routed it through multiple foreign nodes.

To: [email protected]

Subject: The Alliance Is Broken

Message Body:

“The marriage you arranged to protect your daughter is no longer intact.

Your son-in-law has sent her away and taken another woman and child in.

She sleeps under another man’s roof.

A LaRosa has dishonored the Don of Mexico.

Let this be known—your silence will be read as weakness.

A concerned insider.”

He hovered for a second, going over the content over and over before hitting SEND.

The message disappeared.

Just like that, the match was struck.

Antonio leaned back, exhaled slowly, and slid the burner phone into his coat pocket. His lips curved into a small, knowing smile. The fuse was lit. And Don Ceballos would not ignore such a blow.

Let Vincenzo deal with that storm.

Let him bleed.

Antonio rose and exited through the alley, disappearing into the rain-soaked night—already three steps ahead, already planning the next move.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the hills of Monterrey, casting gold over the sea as the waves whispered against the shore. Inside the Ceballos estate, the marble halls were silent, save for the distant ticking of a grandfather clock.

In his study, Don Ceballos sat in a high-backed chair upholstered in blood-red leather. A thick cigar smoldered in his hand, untouched. His dark eyes were fixed on the printed copy of the email resting on his desk.

He had read it twice.

And now… he read it again.

His expression never changed—not once.

A silent rage coiled beneath the surface like a panther ready to pounce. Every sentence of the anonymous message had been chosen to wound his pride.

"Your son-in-law has sent her away and has brought in another woman and child."

"She sleeps under another man’s roof."

"A LaRosa has dishonored the Don of Mexico."

He didn’t need to ask who “she” was.

He didn’t need to guess who sent the message.

He simply knew—his daughter had been cast aside.

By a LaRosa.

By Vincenzo.

Don Ceballos reached for the small brass bell on the edge of his desk and gave it a single, clear ring.

A few moments later, a tall man in a charcoal suit entered the room—Tomas, his most trusted enforcer.

Don Ceballos didn’t look up.

“Get me every detail,” he said, his voice like a blade sliding from its sheath. “Where she is. Where he is. And most importantly…” — he leaned back now, the cigar finally reaching his lips — “...who gave him the permission to disrespect the Ceballos name?”

Tomas gave a slight nod. “Should I begin with contact to the LaRosa elders?”

“No,” Don Ceballos said firmly. “They’ve failed to leash their own dog.”

He leaned forward now, gaze steady.

“This is no longer a marriage,” he whispered. “This is a betrayal.”

“And betrayal,” he added coldly, “deserves war; I warned him.” 

Tomas stepped out to get the details as per Ceballos's request. 

Back in Milan…

The morning sun poured into the vast office through slitted blinds. Vincenzo stood shirtless by the windows, a steaming mug of coffee in hand, his thoughts heavy.

He hadn’t slept much.

Even with Kadie and Enzo safe under his roof, the tension in his chest hadn’t eased.

Pedro walked in quietly, a tablet in hand. One look at his face and Vincenzo knew something was wrong.

“What is it?” he asked without turning.

Pedro hesitated. “A message. Arrived through an old Ceballos channel—encrypted. I had to decode it twice.”

Vincenzo finally turned. “From whom?”

Vincenzo’s eyes were steady. “Don Ceballos.”

Vincenzo froze, lowering the coffee.

“Read it,” he said, voice low.

Pedro unlocked the tablet and recited:

“To Don Vincenzo LaRosa, 

The storm we feared has found our shores.

When I offered you my daughter, I offered you peace, strength, and protection, and in turn, you gave her the life I wanted for her. You accepted under solemn vow never to dishonor what was given.

Now, the earth beneath your feet shifts—not by nature’s will, but by your own hand.

A man who breaks a vow to a Don should not sleep as if the vow was never made.

Consider this a reminder to watch the very ground upon which you walk.

—Don Ceballos.”

Silence.

Vincenzo’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing.

He took the tablet and read the message for himself—slowly, carefully, like it might change if he read it enough times.

It didn’t.

“Has he made any move yet?” Vincenzo asked.

Pedro shook his head. “Nothing we can trace. But this isn’t noise, Enzo. It’s a pulse.”

Vincenzo stared at the words again, then exhaled.

“No. It’s a funeral bell—early.”

Pedro studied him. “What now?”

Vincenzo looked up, his voice calm but icy.

“Now… we prepare.”

Vincenzo left the office with Pedro following behind. They headed straight to the safehouse. He had called Camilla to discreetly move them out of his place. 

The large underground room beneath the estate came alive with motion. Screens flickered with satellite feeds, perimeter surveillance, and encrypted comm lines.

Vincenzo stood at the center of it all, dressed in black, his face a mask of cold concentration. Pedro stood beside him, barking instructions into a comm device.

"Double the personnel at the south and east entrances," Vincenzo said. "Arm all night guards—no rubber, no warning shots. Anyone not registered is a threat."

“Yes, sir.”

“Track outgoing calls and messages from the house. Any strange pings—I want them flagged and frozen.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to Pedro. “I want eyes inside too. Quiet, invisible. Someone who doesn’t panic.”

Pedro hesitated. “That means Kadie will know you’re expecting trouble.”

“She’s not a fool,” Vincenzo muttered. “She already knows.”

He stared at the central monitor—an overhead shot of the garden courtyard where Enzo was playing with Camilla under the watch of two armed men in civilian black.

The image of his son, laughing, unaware… It made his chest ache.

“Secure the boy’s room. Code access only. Put the dogs on rotation and change the route he uses to get to the garden.”

Pedro nodded.

Vincenzo’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Install a jammer on all incoming drones. No eyes in the sky. If anyone tries to scout the house, I want their signal dead before they know we’re watching.”

“Already in motion.”

Vincenzo finally turned toward him.

“I want this place on lockdown, Pedro. Don Ceballos is watching. Alejandra may have left, but she’s not gone. And if Antonio so much as breathes near this estate, I want his lungs emptied.”

Pedro studied his boss for a moment—the war in his voice, the fear behind his anger. Not for himself… but for the woman and child under his roof.

Vincenzo was preparing for war. Not for power. Not for pride.

For them.

“Understood,” Pedro said. “I’ll keep the security live 24/7.”

Vincenzo gave a single nod.

“Good. I need to know they’re safe… while I plan how to end this.”