Dante Moretti never flinched when he pulled the trigger.

Tonight was no different—at least, not on the outside. The silencer hissed, the man slumped to the ground, and Dante stood over the body like he always did: calm, efficient, indifferent.

Except, inside, something was different. The old weight—the one he had learned to carry without breaking—pressed a little harder against his spine.

He crouched beside the body, glancing once at the open eyes that would never blink again. A whisper of regret brushed the edges of his mind, gone before it could take root. He plucked the rosary from the dead man’s fingers and slipped it into his pocket without thinking. Another life ended. Another soul unshriven.

Another job done.

He didn’t bother looking back as he left the flat, blending into the night like he’d never been there.

Two weeks later.

The Vellucci estate in Staten Island was as understated as a lion in a silk robe. Hidden behind iron gates and thick hedges, it looked like money and power and the kind of violence that didn’t need to speak loudly.

Dante stepped into the study where Don Salvatore Vellucci waited, a glass of whiskey in one hand and the other resting on the armrest of a leather chair that probably cost more than most cars. The air smelled faintly of cigars and old books. Dust danced in the light spilling through stained glass windows.

Don Vellucci didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Matteo Rossi is getting reckless,” he said, his voice gravel wrapped in velvet. “Pushing into our docks. Making promises to our people. He needs to be dealt with.”

Dante said nothing, just waited.

The don leaned forward and slid a folder across the polished desk. “You take him out, and I’ll give you what you’ve been asking for. No more jobs. No more calls in the middle of the night. Clean slate.”

Dante’s eyes flicked to the folder. Freedom. The one thing they never gave, unless it benefited them.

He opened the file.

Matteo Rossi. Mid-thirties. Ambitious, volatile, and apparently bold enough to go toe-to-toe with the Velluccis. The photo was grainy, but clear enough. A crooked smirk. A flashy suit.

Dante’s gaze moved to the woman beside him in the picture—long dark hair, pale green eyes, and a calmness that didn’t match the chaos around her.

“Who’s she?” he asked.

“His sister,” Vellucci said with a shrug. “Irrelevant.”

Dante wasn’t so sure.

He closed the folder. “I’ll take the job.”

Vellucci raised his glass. “That’s my boy.”

Outside, the wind had picked up. Clouds rolled low and heavy across the sky. Dante lit a cigarette and tried to ignore the flicker of unease crawling beneath his skin.

This wasn’t just another job.

Across the city, in an apartment that looked more like a war room than a home, Sofia Rossi circled a map littered with red strings and pinned photographs. Her laptop glowed beside her, streaming live security footage from one of the city’s ports. Her heels clicked against the floor with each measured step.

She stopped in front of a board filled with faces—Vellucci men, allies, enemies. And at the center: Don Salvatore himself.

Her lips curved into a small, private smile.

They thought her brother was the threat. That Matteo was the one clawing at their empire. Let them.

It was easier that way.

Let Matteo play at war. Let him flex his muscles and shout about legacy and vengeance. Let him dance like a puppet. He didn’t need to know who held the strings.

She’d spent years planning this.

A thousand small fires, all timed to burn at once. A network of debt, betrayal, and broken loyalties that would collapse the Vellucci family from the inside. And now, the first crack had formed.

She’d seen the man watching the estate yesterday. Broad-shouldered, dark jacket, hood pulled low. But she’d recognized the stillness. The patience. A predator waiting to strike.

Dante Moretti.

The Velluccis had sent their best.

How poetic.

She stood at the window, fingers curled around the curtain’s edge. Down below, traffic moved steadily, unaware of the storm building just beneath the surface.

This wasn’t just about vengeance.

It was about power.

And no one—not even the infamous Dante Moretti—was going to stop her.