Chapter Eleven: The Game Begins Pt. 2

The heavy scent of blood clung to the air like a ghost, thick and suffocating. The dim overhead light flickered, casting erratic shadows over the bound man's face. His whimpers barely carried through the concrete walls of the abandoned warehouse. Vincenzo Moretti sat in the chair across from him, his expression unreadable, his fingers idly tapping against the hilt of a knife resting on the steel table between them.

"Luca Romano," Vincenzo murmured, rolling the name over his tongue like a venomous curse. The Rat flinched at the sound of his name, his swollen eyes barely able to open, his lips split and dripping crimson. "You were quite the elusive one, weren't you?"

Marco stood to Vincenzo's left, arms crossed, watching in silent amusement. He had done most of the work already—Luca's nails had been ripped out, his fingers broken at unnatural angles, his face a mess of bruises and blood. Yet, despite the agony, he had resisted. Until now.

Vincenzo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You should have been smarter, Luca. Spies, rats—they all meet the same end. But before you do, tell me, who sent you?"

Luca's breath rattled in his chest. "I... I don't know what you're talking about," he wheezed.

Marco exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Still lying? After all this?" He turned to Vincenzo. "I think he's in denial. Maybe he needs... encouragement."

Vincenzo nodded, reaching for the knife. "Luca, Luca, Luca... this doesn't have to be difficult. You talk, and maybe, just maybe, I let you die with some dignity."

Luca's breath came in sharp gasps as Vincenzo pressed the knife to his cheek, slowly dragging it down. The skin split effortlessly, a fresh crimson river trickling down. The Rat sobbed, the pain finally breaking him.

"Vitore," he croaked. "It was the Vitore family. I swear. They—they paid me to leak information about your supply routes. I didn't have a choice!"

Vincenzo exchanged a glance with Marco. Expected, but still, confirmation was satisfying.

"And the one who ordered it?"

Luca hesitated. Vincenzo's patience snapped. He drove the knife into Luca's thigh, twisting it mercilessly. A guttural scream tore from the Rat's throat.

"Nicodemo," Luca finally wailed. "Nicodemo Vitore! The Young Lord himself!"

Vincenzo stilled. The heir of the Vitore family. So, the boy was finally playing games of war. He smirked.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Luca," he murmured. Then, with a single swift motion, he dragged the knife across the Rat's throat. Blood spilled, hot and fast, as Luca gurgled his last breaths. Marco let the body slump to the floor.

Vincenzo exhaled, wiping the blade clean. "It's time we stop holding back," he said, voice calm, cold. "Marco, spread the word. I have a gift for the Vitore family. Let's see how eager they are to bite."

---

The whispers spread like wildfire through the underworld. A valuable Moretti warehouse, lightly guarded, filled with high-end shipments. It was the kind of opportunity that no ambitious enemy could resist.

Nicodemo Vitore, self-proclaimed god among men, heir to the Vitore empire, sat in his family's lavish estate, drumming his fingers against his whiskey glass. His subordinates stood before him, waiting.

"Moretti has gotten bold," one of them muttered. "Leaving such a warehouse practically unguarded."

Nicodemo scoffed. "Or he's gotten sloppy. Moretti's grip is slipping. It's time we take what's ours."

His second-in-command hesitated. "It seems... too easy."

Nicodemo's sharp glare cut through the room. "Are you suggesting I'm a fool? That I can't see a trap when it's laid before me?"

The man swallowed hard. "Of course not, Young Lord."

Nicodemo smirked. "Then we take it. And when we do, I'll make sure Moretti knows who orchestrated his downfall."

---

The night was quiet when the Vitore men arrived at the warehouse, slipping through the shadows like predators closing in on prey. The place was exactly as the rumors had described—dimly lit, crates stacked high, a golden opportunity waiting to be seized.

Nicodemo watched from a distance, perched inside a sleek black car a few blocks away. His men were professionals; they moved like ghosts, efficiently dispersing to secure the perimeter before pushing deeper into the warehouse. There were only a handful of Moretti guards visible, most of them lazily leaning against walls, half-engaged in cigarettes and murmured conversations. It was pathetic.

Nicodemo grinned. "See? I told you. Moretti's slipping. This is ours."

His men moved in. The first group fanned out, sweeping through the facility. The crates were right where they needed to be—untouched, waiting to be claimed. One of his lieutenants gave him a nod from across the lot, signaling the all-clear.

That was when everything changed.

The first explosion was a deep, earth-shaking boom. A split-second later, fire erupted from the far end of the warehouse, engulfing several of his men in a flash of searing heat. The shockwave sent bodies flying, steel doors groaning under the force.

Screams pierced the air. The second explosion followed almost immediately, this one deeper inside, a chain reaction of destruction that swallowed everything in its path. The crates they had been so eager to steal? Rigged. The warehouse walls? Reinforced just enough to funnel the blast inward, ensuring maximum carnage.

Nicodemo's smug expression shattered. "Merda!" he bellowed, gripping the dashboard. "Stronzo! Figlio di puttana!"

The remaining Vitore men scrambled to escape, but the flames were relentless, licking at their heels as debris rained from above. Smoke filled the air, thick and acrid, choking those still conscious enough to feel the burn of betrayal.

Nicodemo slammed his fist against the dashboard, teeth grinding. "That bastard played us! He fucking played us!"

His driver, white-knuckled on the wheel, dared not speak. The fire roared behind them, a hellish inferno consuming what should have been their victory. Instead, it was a massacre.

"Moretti!" Nicodemo spat, his voice venomous. "I swear on my name, I will rip you apart! I will burn your empire to the ground!"

The car screeched away, leaving behind the ruins of his failure, the taste of humiliation thick on his tongue.

---

Vincenzo leaned back in his chair, the smooth aroma of red wine curling through the air as he swirled the glass in his hand. The flames of the fireplace flickered, casting shifting shadows across the room, mirroring the chaos he had just unleashed.

Nicodemo had taken the bait. The Vitore family had walked straight into his web, and now, their heir was burning with rage. He could imagine the scene—Nicodemo cursing his name, vowing vengeance. It was almost too easy.

The night had been productive. The first real move in a game that would decide the future of the underworld had been played, and Vincenzo had drawn first blood.

Then, his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen. An unknown number.

He let it ring twice before answering. "Vincenzo Moretti."

A brief pause. Then, a voice—smooth as silk, laced with something he couldn't quite place—poured through the receiver.

"I believe it's time we meet."

Vincenzo's fingers tightened slightly around his glass. He tilted his head, intrigued. "And who might I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

A chuckle, soft but deliberate. The kind that carried a quiet confidence. "Alessia Vitore."

Vincenzo's eyes sharpened. The surname alone was enough to put most men on edge, but it didn't rattle him—it only made the game more interesting. He had expected retaliation, anger, threats. Instead, the voice on the other end was calm, measured.

He took a sip of wine, letting the silence stretch. "A Vitore calling me so soon after tonight's… spectacle. Bold."

"Some would say reckless," she mused. "But I prefer to think of it as necessary."

There was something in the way she spoke—controlled, yet laced with an unspoken weight. This wasn't a desperate call for vengeance. This was something else.

"And what necessity brings you to my line, Alessia?"

Another pause. "I think you already know, Vincenzo."

His smirk deepened. Clever. She wasn't revealing her hand just yet. But neither was he.

"Very well," he said, amusement dancing in his tone. "Let's talk. But know this, Alessia—Vitore or not, stepping into my world is a dangerous thing."

"And yet, here I am," she answered smoothly.

The line clicked off.

Vincenzo set the phone down, a slow exhale leaving his lips. His mind was already working through the possibilities. Nicodemo was impulsive, reckless. But Alessia? She was an enigma. And enigmas were always the most dangerous pieces on the board.

The game had just taken a fascinating turn