Blood and Vengeance

The scent of gasoline and blood thickened the cold Palermo night. Lorenzo Valente stepped out of the black Maserati, his polished leather shoes pressing against the damp pavement. The Sicilian air was heavy with the salt of the Mediterranean, but the only thing Lorenzo could taste was vengeance.

A traitor had been found.

The warehouse loomed ahead, its rusted metal walls groaning against the wind. Inside, muffled grunts and the occasional cough echoed—a man bound, awaiting judgment. Lorenzo adjusted the cuffs of his suit, his movements deliberate, measured. He wasn't one to rush retribution. Betrayal had a price, and he would ensure it was paid in full.

Enzo Moretti, his right-hand man, flanked him, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. "He's inside," Enzo muttered, flicking ash onto the ground. "Begging for mercy. You want to hear him cry first, or should I put a bullet between his eyes?"

Lorenzo smirked, the faintest glint of amusement in his otherwise unreadable eyes. "Let's hear his last words."

They stepped into the warehouse, boots clicking against the concrete floor. A single bulb swayed overhead, casting erratic shadows. The man was tied to a chair, his lip split, one eye swollen shut. Blood dripped onto his shirt, a mess of red against the pale fabric.

"L-Lorenzo," the man stammered. "It wasn't me, I swear—"

Lorenzo's hand shot out, gripping the man's jaw with brutal force. "You sold me out to Salvatore," he said, voice calm, deadly. "You think I wouldn't find out?"

"No, please—"

A knife glinted in Lorenzo's other hand. He pressed the cold steel against the man's throat, watching as terror overtook him. "Begging doesn't suit you," he murmured. "You had your chance."

A gunshot cracked through the air.

The body slumped, lifeless.

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, stepping back as Enzo holstered his gun. "Thought you wanted to take your time," Enzo said casually.

Lorenzo wiped a speck of blood off his sleeve, eyes dark and unreadable. "I changed my mind."

He turned on his heel, his gaze landing on the wall, stained with the blood of those who had dared to betray him. Vengeance was no stranger—it clung to him like a shadow, familiar and relentless. One traitor down. Many more to go.

Lorenzo wiped the last speck of blood from his cuff, his expression unreadable. The air inside the warehouse hung heavy with death, the scent of gunpowder and iron saturating the cold space. The traitor's lifeless body slumped in the chair, head hanging at an awkward angle, eyes frozen in an expression of terror.

Enzo exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching his boss with an amused glint in his eyes. "So, what do we do with him?" He gestured at the corpse. "Leave him to rot, or should I make an example out of him?"

Lorenzo turned his gaze to the dead man, his fingers adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with meticulous precision. His movements were always deliberate, never rushed—power lay in control, and Lorenzo Valente never acted on impulse. He stepped closer, nudging the corpse's knee with the tip of his polished shoe, then looked at Enzo.

"Send him back to L'Ombra Rossa," he said smoothly. "A little parting gift for Vittorio."

Enzo let out a low chuckle. "Gift-wrapped in a coffin or strung up like an animal?"

Lorenzo tilted his head, as if contemplating the options, then smirked. "No coffin. No dignity. Strip him to his shirt, carve a message on his chest, and dump him at their doorstep." He turned away, already walking toward the exit, the faint echo of his footsteps filling the empty warehouse. "Make sure they know who sent him."

Enzo's grin widened. "With pleasure, boss."

L'Ombra Rossa Headquarters – Vittorio Salvatore's Estate

The grand estate of L'Ombra Rossa stood on the outskirts of Palermo, a fortress of old Sicilian wealth and criminal power. The manor's gothic architecture loomed against the night sky, its black iron gates closed to all but the most trusted of Vittorio's men. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and expensive whiskey, the scent of power and sin woven into the very walls.

Vittorio Salvatore sat at the head of a long mahogany table, swirling a glass of whiskey between his fingers. The room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his sharp features. He was a man of calculated ruthlessness, always playing the long game, always watching.

A loud bang echoed through the halls, followed by hurried footsteps. One of his guards burst into the room, face pale, breath ragged. "Boss—"

Vittorio's dark eyes flicked up, irritation flickering across his face. "You have three seconds to explain why you're barging in like a goddamn fool."

The man swallowed hard. "There's... there's something outside. You need to see it."

Vittorio's jaw tightened. He set his glass down with a controlled clink, pushing back his chair. Without a word, he rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. He hated being interrupted. If this was another minor inconvenience, someone would die for it.

The guards trailed behind him as he strode through the grand hallway, his polished shoes tapping against the marble floor. When he reached the main entrance, one of his men hesitated before swinging open the heavy doors.

The sight that greeted him made the air in his lungs still for a fraction of a second.

There, right outside the gates, a body sat propped up against the iron bars. Pale. Bloodied. Defiled.

His eyes slowly traveled down the corpse's chest, where a message had been carved in deep, jagged letters:

"TRY HARDER."

Vittorio's lips curled into a sneer, rage simmering beneath the surface of his calm exterior. The body was a clear statement, a taunt dripping with arrogance. Lorenzo Valente wanted him to know that the betrayal had been crushed, that L'Ombra Rossa's influence was nothing in the face of La Legge Nera's wrath.

One of his men muttered a curse under his breath. "Bastard really sent him back like this..."

Vittorio exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring. He crouched beside the body, tilting his head as he studied the crude carving on the man's chest. The wounds were deep, meant to bleed him out slowly. Lorenzo had wanted him to suffer.

"Burn it," Vittorio said coldly. "I don't want his corpse stinking up my estate."

A pause. Then a hesitant voice. "And Lorenzo?"

Vittorio slowly rose to his full height, his eyes gleaming with something dark. "Lorenzo thinks this is a game. He wants to taunt me, to provoke me into making a reckless move." He turned to face his men, his jaw tightening. "Fine. Let him believe he's in control."

His fingers twitched at his side, the only sign of the fury bubbling beneath the surface.

"Send word," he ordered. "Tell my men to prepare. If Valente wants a war, we'll give him one."

The silence that followed was thick with anticipation.

Vittorio stepped back inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

The war had begun.