The first strike came at dawn.

It wasn’t subtle.

The Bratva didn’t deal in whispers this time—they dealt in fire.

The Vitale warehouse near the docks, a key hub for weapons and shipments, went up in a violent blaze that shook the harbor. Metal screamed as it twisted, flames licked at the sky, and explosions cracked through the morning air.

By the time Enzo arrived, the building was nothing but a skeleton of blackened steel. The scent of charred wood and gasoline hung thick, smoke clawing into his lungs.

Dante stood in the wreckage, shirt singed, hair wild, fury etched deep into his face. “It was coordinated. Timed explosives. They...