Chapter Two: Blood and Ashes

The air was thick with the scent of iron and dust.

Matteo's blood soaked through Vincenzo's fingers as he pressed down on the wound, desperately trying to stem the tide of life slipping away. His hands trembled, stained with the reality of the moment.

Matteo's breaths were ragged, labored gasps. His once powerful hands, that had held his loyalty like a weapon, twitched, seeking something—anything—before they fell limp.

"Matteo..." Vincenzo's voice cracked, breaking through the thick silence that hung between them. "Stay with me."

But the light in Matteo's eyes was already fading. The man who had sworn his life to Vincenzo's cause now lay dying, too far gone for words to reach him.

Matteo's lips moved, struggling to form a sentence, but no sound came. His head slumped back, his chest barely rising with each breath.

Vincenzo leaned in closer, pressing harder against the wound, his voice urgent, though his hands shook with a quiet fury. "Don't you dare leave me now."

But the blood spilled faster than the promises he could make. "Boss... I'm sorry...", Matteo's eyes fluttered, the last vestiges of consciousness slipping away.

Vincenzo closed his eyes briefly, feeling a weight press down on his chest, heavier than anything he'd ever known. A man of his own family. A soldier. Dead. Just like that.

The wind outside the warehouse whistled through the cracks in the walls, but the only sound that mattered in this moment was the quiet death of a brother.

Then, a step. A hesitant voice.

"Signore…"

Marco's tone held something in it—a sadness, but also an unspoken understanding. Vincenzo didn't look up.

"We'll take care of his family."

His voice was low, calm, yet the resolve in it could have shattered mountains. It wasn't just an order. It was a commitment. One Vincenzo made to every man who fought for him, every soul that walked beside him. They were more than just soldiers. They were his family.

Marco nodded without question. A silent agreement passed between them.

The other men, lingering in the shadows, remained motionless, their respect shown in the stillness of their forms. Their grief was there, thick in the air, but it was muted. This wasn't the time to mourn. There was work to be done.

Vincenzo stood slowly, letting the weight of his grief settle into his bones before he turned away, Marco following close behind. The silence in the room seemed to cling to him as he walked out, each step measured, purposeful.

---

Outside, the hunt had begun.

Vincenzo's men moved through the city like ghosts, their presence barely a whisper in the dark streets. Their quarry was a man who had killed one of their own, and they would see him pay for that. He wasn't just an enemy.

The man with the rose tattoo had already started running, bleeding, desperate to escape the consequences of his actions. He had no idea how much his life was worth—or how little time he had left.

Marco held a torn piece of fabric in his hand, dark with fresh blood, still warm. He knelt beside it, studying it for a moment before he looked up at Vincenzo, his eyes grim.

"He's hurt, Signore."

Vincenzo's eyes narrowed. A trail. A sign. A weakness.

Without a word, he began to walk forward. Marco fell in step beside him, his gaze never leaving the trail.

"He's not getting away." Vincenzo's voice was a low growl, filled with a promise. "This ends tonight."

---

The Funeral

There was no time for ceremony in their world.

Matteo's funeral had been quick, subdued—no more than a moment in time. A quick gathering of mourners at the Moretti estate. A moment stolen from the chaos that never ceased.

The men stood rigid in their places, their faces masks of indifference. They had learned long ago that to grieve too openly would be a weakness. There was no place for tears in this family. Only strength.

Vincenzo stood at the front, his posture straight, his expression a mask of control. His hands were clasped before him, his fingers tight as though holding on to the only thing that kept him grounded.

When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of authority. "We will suffer. We will bleed. We will lose things that cannot be replaced."

The men listened. The room, heavy with sorrow, seemed to hold its breath.

"But we will not break," Vincenzo continued, his eyes sweeping over them. "In the end, we will achieve what none of them thought possible."

His gaze lingered, a fire burning behind his eyes. He wasn't just speaking to them; he was speaking to himself, reinforcing his own resolve.

He looked at each man. Not just soldiers. Brothers.

"This family was built on blood and sacrifice. And we will honor Matteo's life with our actions. His family will never want for anything, not as long as we draw breath."

The words weren't just a promise. They were a vow.

And when the men spoke in unison, their voices resounded in the hall with the echo of their shared purpose.

"Non siamo nati per fallire. Noi dominiamo."

We were not born to fail. We dominate.

The words hung in the air, vibrating with the power of history, of the legacy they carried. And Vincenzo felt the fire again—the same fire that had burned in his father's eyes, that had fueled the rise of the Moretti name from nothing.

Matteo's death would not break them. It would forge them into something stronger.

---

The Study

Night stretched on, the heavy silence of the estate settling like a blanket over the cold stone walls.

Vincenzo stood alone by the window in his study, gazing out at the city he had inherited. Rome—his battleground. His home. His future.

The city's lights blinked like distant stars, but to him, they were just fleeting moments in time, their brightness drowned out by the weight of the world.

His father's voice echoed in his mind, words spoken years ago but as sharp as if they had been spoken yesterday.

"Power is a weight, figlio mio. The weak crumble beneath it. The strong use it to shape the world."

Vincenzo's hand curled into a fist as he stared out at the night. The city that had claimed his family's blood would not be the same city that had swallowed it.

He would change Rome. He would carve his name into its foundations, ensure his legacy was cemented in every corner of it.

No more suffering. No more loss.

With a slow breath, Vincenzo made a vow—one not of words but of action.

This was just the beginning. And Rome would remember the name of Vincenzo Moretti.