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The air had grown thick with Sicilian heat as Marco and Pedro crept along the east alley of the warehouse district, flanked by two scouts. The intelligence had said the Salamancas would be moving crates through the south gate—a routine supply run.

Vincenzo waited two rooftops away, watching from the shadows through a scope. His earpiece buzzed softly with Pedro’s update.

“Visual on three targets. No signs of the supplier. Could be early or late.”

Pedro’s jaw tightened. Something felt off.

Then—

“Wait.” Marco’s voice broke through the comms. 

“The street’s too empty. They’ve cleared it—”

Crack.

A single suppressed shot hissed through the air—one of their men dropped, gurgling on his own blood.

“AMBUSH! FALL BACK!” Pedro roared.

Suddenly, floodlights burst to life across the rooftops. Bullets rained from windows and warehouse scaffolds. The Salamancas had baited them.

Vincenzo launched forward from the rooftop, rolling into cover behind an AC vent. He fired two clean shots, taking down the sniper on the far ledge.

On the ground, Pedro pulled Marco behind a crate. “They knew we were coming!”

“Because someone told them,” Vincenzo growled through the mic, scanning fast. “Marco—smoke. Pedro—cut east.”

Two smoke bombs hissed into the alley, covering the retreat.

From across the street, a Salamanca foot soldier in a leather jacket approached slowly, rifle raised. But he paused—his eyes widened.

He’d spotted Vincenzo emerging through the smoke.

He didn’t blink. He raised his gun and fired. One shot—between the eyes.

“We’re compromised,” Vincenzo snapped. “Call off the recon. We hit them my way now—no more subtlety.”

As his men vanished into the smoke behind him, he stood in the middle of the chaos for just a breath, lit by flickering flames.

He was done waiting.

The dust died down, but Vincenzo wasn't taking it; Ceballos sent such brutal rascals after him, and even though he had taken them out, he still wasn't going to let it fly. 

“Drive to Ceballos warehouse immediately.” Vincenzo was going to prove to the old man that he too wasn't a weakling. 

The black convoy sped through the mountain roads like shadows with engines. No lights. No chatter.

Vincenzo sat in the lead vehicle, jaw tight, eyes locked ahead.

Beside him, Pedro checked the schematics again.

“You’re sure this is the one?” Vincenzo asked, his voice like gravel soaked in ice.

“Confirmed. Warehouse 19. Ceballos stores high-value cargo there—weapons, synthetic pills, and cash. It’s one of his primary veins in Italy.”

“Then tonight we cut it.”

The convoy slowed as they approached the perimeter. Vincenzo’s men moved with ghostlike precision—thermal scopes, suppressed rifles, and grenades strapped across their chests.

The perimeter guards didn’t even know what hit them. One by one, they were taken down—clean, efficient.

Then came the signal.

Boom.

The eastern wall went up in a fiery blast. Shrapnel sang through the air as Vincenzo led the charge inside. His team stormed the warehouse, guns raised, firing in controlled bursts. Crates splintered. Sirens wailed. A few of Ceballos’s men tried to fight back—they didn’t last long.

Vincenzo moved like a man possessed—not for the thrill, but for the message.

When they reached the vault section, he didn’t hesitate.

“Blow it.”

The vault door blew off its hinges. Inside: pallets of cash wrapped in plastic, bricks of narcotics sealed in vacuum packs, and a briefcase with documents stamped Mexico City.

Vuncenzo looked around at the chaos, breathing hard. The firelight reflected off his eyes—not with triumph, but focus.

“Touch everything. Leave nothing.”

As the fire swallowed the heart of Don Ceballos’s Italy operation, Vincenzo turned to Pedro.

“By dawn, I want Ceballos’s suppliers to be scrambling. His people, panicking. He touched my son and my woman, and now he’s sending Colombians and Salamancas? Let’s show him what it means to bleed.”

Back in Brione estate…

The mist hung low over the vineyards. Dew painted the rosebushes lining the old cobblestone path outside the estate. Inside, Kadie stood in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea she hadn’t touched in the last twenty minutes.

She glanced at the clock. Still no message from Vincenzo.

Enzo had finally gone back to sleep after a restless night. Camilla had stepped outside to take a call, leaving the house unusually quiet.

A soft knock echoed down the hall.

Kadie froze.

Not the front door. It was the back—the one only the staff or trusted family ever used.

She stepped out of the kitchen and made her way cautiously toward the sound. Rancho was supposed to be on patrol. He wouldn’t knock.

The knock came again—firmer this time.

Kadie’s hand hovered over the doorknob just as Camilla stepped in from the corridor, her phone pressed to her chest.

“Don’t open that,” Camilla whispered, her voice tight.

Kadie swallowed hard. “What’s going on?”

Before Camilla could respond, the knock turned into a pound.

Suddenly, Rancho rushed in from the other side of the estate, his voice sharp.

“Step away from the door, both of you!”

Camilla pulled Kadie back just as the pounding stopped.

Silence.

Then—a low voice through the door:

“We know Vincenzo isn’t home. But his family is.”

Kadie’s heart dropped.

Camilla pulled out her gun. “Upstairs. Now. Take Enzo.”

“Camilla—”

“Now, Kadie.”

Rancho motioned toward the back staircase. Kadie ran, her legs trembling. Every sound felt like thunder.

Upstairs, Enzo stirred sleepily. She scooped him into her arms, whispering assurances she didn’t believe.

Outside, voices argued in Italian. One of them said Ceballos’s name. Another said, “kid.”

Then a gunshot rang out.

Enzo was still half-asleep in Kadie’s arms, his small fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt when the back window shattered with a loud crash.

Kadie screamed, shielding her son as glass rained across the floor.

“They’re inside!” Camilla yelled from downstairs, already firing off a warning shot.

Rancho was the first to reach the intruders. Despite his age, he moved like a man decades younger—his instincts sharp, his loyalty unshakable.

“You’ll go through me first!” he growled, raising his sidearm as two masked men stormed through the corridor.

But they didn’t hesitate.

A loud bang echoed through the estate.

Kadie let out a strangled cry as Rancho’s body jerked violently, a red stain blooming on his chest as he fell back against the wall.

“No!” Camilla’s voice cracked as she fired in retaliation.

“Take the boy!” One of the intruders barked in Italian.

Kadie turned to flee, clutching Enzo, but another man cut them off. He shoved her back violently against the dresser, and she crashed to the floor, her grip on Enzo slipping.

Enzo screamed, reaching for her, but a hand grabbed him by the waist and yanked him away.

“No—Enzo!” Kadie screamed, crawling toward him, her nails scraping the wooden floor. “Please! Don’t hurt him!”

Camilla came running up the stairs, firing again—one bullet struck the man holding Enzo in the arm, but he didn’t let go.

“Run!” the wounded man shouted to his partner, already halfway to the back door.

In seconds, they were gone—Enzo’s terrified screams fading into the morning air as tires screeched outside and an engine roared to life.

Kadie pushed herself up, barely able to breathe.

Camilla was kneeling by Rancho now, pressing both hands against his wound. He coughed, blood bubbling at his lips.

“He took… the boy…” Rancho rasped. “Don’t… let them…”

“Hold on, Rancho. Please,” Camilla begged. “Don’t go; stay with me.”

But Kadie could only stare at the empty doorway, her vision swimming with panic and helplessness.

They took her son.