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The flames licked the sky like angry tongues, devouring wood, steel, and secrets.

Vincenzo didn’t look back.

Each step he took was steady, boots hitting the gravel with a crunch that echoed louder than the distant explosions behind him. The air was thick with smoke and heat, the scent of burning chemicals mixing with the salt of the Mediterranean breeze. The night should’ve been quiet. But now, it roared.

Behind him, the warehouse groaned. Its frame cracked and caved in, a dying beast collapsing under the weight of betrayal. Pedro stood a few meters back, watching the inferno with arms crossed, his jaw clenched in silence.

Vincenzo didn’t stop walking until he was far enough to see the whole building in his periphery.

A dozen armed men flanked the perimeter, flames dancing in their eyes, their silhouettes casting long, distorted shadows. None of them spoke. No one dared.

This wasn’t just a fire. It was a funeral.

The funeral of Antonio’s schemes. Of stolen goods. Of secrets traded in the dark. And Vincenzo had lit the pyre himself.

A sharp gust of wind carried sparks into the night sky, like fleeting stars fleeing a battlefield. Still, Vincenzo stood unmoving, his jaw tight, his shoulders square.

It wasn’t just rage that had brought him here. It was principle. Discipline. Betrayal was always punishable. But betrayal from blood… that burned deeper. Antonio was blood, and he had always hoped there was some sort of redemption for him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

There would be time for calls. For the next move. For war.

For now, he watched the fire finish what betrayal had started.

And when the roof finally caved in and the final explosion shattered the silence, he turned and disappeared into the night—the blaze behind him burning brighter than ever.

Absolutely. Here's the follow-up scene of Alejandra making a frantic call to Don Ceballos, her father—high-strung, scared, but also desperate to maintain control. The moment captures her unraveling panic, her guilt, and her instinct to run back to the only man powerful enough to challenge Vincenzo.

Location: Marseille – Same Night

Alejandra’s hands trembled as she fumbled with her phone, her pupils wide, breath ragged. The orange glow from the fire outside flickered through the cracked window, casting her face in light and shadow.

She paced the room like a trapped animal, one hand running through her tangled hair, the other gripping the phone like it might vanish. Antonio was gone—either trying to salvage what was left or caught in the chaos. She didn’t care. Not right now. She never did anyway; the man was simply a means to an end. 

Seeing that look on Vincenzo’s face, the look that said he had nothing left to lose… She knew the situation had left her control, and saving Vincenzo was no longer a possibility.

The moment the line connected, she didn’t wait for greetings.

“Papá—” Her voice cracked. “I need you.”

There was silence on the other end. Then came the unmistakable voice of Don Ceballos, her father, deep and calm as ever. “Mi'ja.”

“I—I messed up,” she whispered, sliding down the wall until she was crouched on the floor. “Vincenzo found out.”

A pause. Cold silence.

“What happened?” her father said, tone even. He didn’t want a single fault to be from his daughter, so he'll have every right to fight Vincenzo. 

“A lot, Papa!” she snapped, eyes welling with tears. “I haven’t seen him like this before. He burned everything. He almost killed us. He—he’s not going to stop. You have to help me.”

Don Ceballos was silent again, but Alejandra could feel the temperature shift. He was listening now. Calculating.

“Are you in danger?” he asked at last.

“I don’t know,” she breathed. “Not yet. But I know him. He won’t forget this. He’s unraveling, Papá. He sent me away… told me to leave our home. He brought his mistress and child in. And because of that, I am going to be a mess again, Papa.”

The words were bait. She knew it.

But she needed her father angry. She needed him involved.

She needed his wrath.

Don Ceballos exhaled. A sound like the tightening of a noose. “Send me your location. Stay inside. I’ll take it from here.”

The call ended. She stared at the screen, breathing hard, and slowly let the phone drop from her hand to the floor.

The father she hadn’t wanted to call... was now in the game.

And there would be blood. She hoped he started with Kadie and her son. 

Vincenzo returned home to his peace, unknown to the war that was brewing behind him. 

The smell of citrus and lavender wafted from the bathroom, drifting into the bedroom where Kadie lay curled on the bed, wrapped in one of Vincenzo’s black shirts. Her damp hair rested on the pillows, eyes half-closed, lulled by the soft hum of the jazz music playing from the speakers.

It had been less than 24 hours, but she was already loving it here. The solemnity, the fact that she didn't have to look over her shoulder. 

The door creaked open.

She turned her head just as Vincenzo stepped in—unshaven, in a dark hoodie, his gaze heavy but softened the moment it landed on her.

“You’re back,” she whispered, sitting up slightly.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he walked straight to her, pulled her up by his shirt to wrap himself deeper into her warmth, and dropped a kiss on her forehead.

“Did you eat?” he asked quietly, his voice grave with fatigue.

“I waited,” she murmured. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t make it back tonight.”

“I had to,” he said simply. “I needed to see you. Touch something that wasn’t falling apart.”

Kadie smiled faintly and reached up to brush her fingers over his jaw. “You smell like smoke.”

“I burned down a part of hell,” he said, a dry smirk at the edge of his lips. “Felt good.”

She laughed softly, then leaned into his chest as he slid beside her. For a while, neither spoke. The world was chaotic outside, but here—here was safe. Her fingers rested gently over his heart as he breathed, grounding them both.

“I could stay like this forever,” she whispered.

Vincenzo's hand slid through her hair, settling against the back of her neck. “You might have to. The outside is getting uglier.”

Before she could respond, a knock rattled against the door.

Three knocks. Paused. One more.

Vincenzo’s body tensed slightly—the signal was unmistakable. It was Pedro.

He sighed, brushing his lips against Kadie’s temple. “I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, reluctantly letting him go.

He crossed the room and cracked the door open—just enough to meet Pedro’s expression.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Pedro said, voice low. “Don Ceballos’s men have landed in Marseille. His top men. Two convoys. Looks like they’ve brought heavy artillery.”

Vincenzo exhaled slowly, like he was pushing back a tidal wave. He hadn’t expected Marseille to become this adventurous. He should've just come alone.

“And there’s more,” Pedro added, glancing over Vincenzo’s shoulder toward the woman on the bed. “They’re not just here for you. They’re here for her.”

Vincenzo didn’t flinch—not even a flicker. Just a calm, slow blink as his jaw clenched.

“Then we keep her closer,” he said. “Because I’ll let the world burn before I let them touch her.”