Chapter One: The Price of Power

Rome—the City of God. A land of greatness, ambition, and history. A city where the past and the present intertwine, where ancient ruins stand beside modern skyscrapers, telling the story of a civilization that never truly fell.

But beneath its beauty, beneath the golden glow of its streetlights and the lively hum of its people, there is another Rome. A hidden world. A world where shadows hold secrets, where power is measured not by words, but by blood.

A world where only the strong survive.

And tonight, in that world, something was about to change.

---

From the balcony of his villa, Vincenzo Moretti stood, his gaze stretching across the city. The wind was cool against his face, carrying the distant sound of Rome's heartbeat—the cars, the laughter, the whispers of lovers in the streets below.

Yet, none of it truly reached him. His mind was elsewhere.

His fingers tapped lightly against the iron railing as he exhaled. "100%... huh?"

The words left his lips like a quiet promise. A confirmation.

Tonight, something would happen. Something he had already foreseen.

He could feel it. The same way a predator senses when the hunt is about to end. The same way a soldier knows when the first shot will be fired.

A part of him almost smiled at the certainty of it. But another part of him—the part that knew what this life required—remained still.

Because certainty was a double-edged sword.

It could be victory.

Or it could be death.

He reached up, stretching his hand toward the sky, as if trying to pluck a star from the heavens. The stars—so distant, so untouchable. Yet, in that moment, they felt closer than ever.

Then, a voice cut through the night.

"Signore."

Vincenzo lowered his hand, sighing. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Marco," he said, his voice low but warm.

Marco stepped into view, his face unreadable but his posture stiff with concern. "There's been no word from Matteo."

Vincenzo's heart skipped a beat, but he masked it with a soft laugh. "Matteo? The man's always late."

"But this time..." Marco hesitated, his voice trailing off.

Vincenzo turned to face him, his face hardening. "What do you mean?"

"I fear something has happened," Marco said, his eyes narrowing. "He should have been back hours ago."

Vincenzo exhaled, the weight of the situation sinking in. He didn't like where this was heading.

"Gather the men," Vincenzo said, his tone sharper now.

Marco opened his mouth to protest but then closed it, nodding. "Right away, Signore."

"Marco," Vincenzo called just before Marco could leave. "Whatever happens tonight, you stay close. You understand?"

Marco gave a quick nod. "I always do."

Vincenzo allowed himself a brief, almost imperceptible smile before turning away. "Then let's move."

---

The convoy moved through the streets in near silence, the headlights cutting through the darkness like blades.

Inside one of the cars, Vincenzo sat still, his fingers resting lightly against his knee. His posture was calm, but his mind was racing ahead, considering every possibility.

Was Matteo alive? Was this a simple mistake, or was it something much worse?

His instincts were never wrong.

He glanced at Marco, who was sitting beside him, his face a mask of unreadable concern.

"You think he's still alive?" Vincenzo asked, breaking the silence.

Marco's gaze flickered to him, a slight tension in his shoulders. "I don't know, Signore."

Vincenzo nodded, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Then we'll find him."

The tension in the car was thick, like the air before a storm.

---

By the time they reached the warehouse district, the city's lights had faded behind them, swallowed by the empty streets and the weight of something unseen.

The air felt heavier here—oppressive. The kind of heavy that only came before a storm.

Vincenzo stepped out first, his coat billowing around him. He adjusted it as he surveyed the warehouse in front of him.

Marco fell into step beside him, his eyes scanning the area.

The scent of damp concrete and rusted metal filled the air, but there was something else—a metallic tang that made Vincenzo's senses sharpen.

He didn't speak. His feet carried him forward without hesitation, each step purposeful.

"Stay close," he murmured to Marco.

As they approached the entrance, Vincenzo didn't need to look at Marco to know what was going through his mind. The same unease, the same dread.

But they had no choice. They couldn't turn back now.

The creak of the warehouse door echoed unnaturally loud, breaking the silence like the first crack of thunder in a storm.

Inside, the darkness felt alive. The air was thick, untouched by time.

And then—

A sound.

A breath.

A shadow moved.

Vincenzo's heart pounded, a primal instinct kicking in. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

A figure rushed through the darkness, too fast to see, too quick to catch.

BANG!

A gunshot ripped through the air.

The world froze for a moment.

And then—

Matteo's body hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Vincenzo didn't hesitate. His feet carried him forward, and he dropped to his knees beside Matteo, who was already bleeding out.

"Matteo!" Vincenzo shouted, his voice cracking.

Matteo's eyes fluttered open, weak. He tried to speak, but no words came. His breath was shallow, struggling.

Vincenzo pressed his hand against the wound, his teeth gritted.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "You're not dying tonight."

Marco shouted orders behind him, but Vincenzo didn't hear. His world was reduced to the sound of Matteo's ragged breathing.

But then, as Vincenzo's grip tightened, Matteo's hand fell limp.

The world seemed to stop.

"No..." Vincenzo's voice broke, a mix of rage and helplessness flooding him.

He stared down at his trusted man, his friend—his family—gone.

And in that moment, Vincenzo knew one thing for certain.

This was only the beginning.