Bloodlines and Betrayal

London pulsed with life beneath a canopy of steel-gray clouds. The city thrived in its orchestrated chaos—the hum of traffic, the distant chime of Big Ben, the hurried footsteps of people who moved as if time itself were chasing them.

Bianca Salvatore stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse, a delicate porcelain cup balanced between her fingers. The taste of espresso lingered on her lips, but her mind was elsewhere. She had long since mastered the art of maintaining a facade—the poised, refined woman of London's elite. A daughter of old money, raised in a world of power and propriety. But beneath the curated image lay something colder, something sharpened by the weight of secrets she could never speak.

Her phone vibrated against the polished mahogany table. The screen flashed a name she had expected but did not welcome.

Vittorio.

Bianca's fingers tightened around the cup before she set it down with calculated grace. She reached for the phone, pressed it to her ear, and stepped away from the window. The city's reflection swallowed her whole as she disappeared into the shadows of the room.

Palermo, Sicily.

The docks were quiet beneath the cloak of midnight, but silence did not mean absence. It meant waiting. Watching. Planning.

Vittorio Salvatore stood on the deck of an abandoned cargo ship, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored coat. The scent of the sea mixed with the acrid sting of diesel, creating an air thick with something unspoken anticipation, perhaps. Or the promise of violence.

Behind him, his men waited, their presence a silent extension of his will. They moved like shadows, unseen but ever-present, as Vittorio watched the distant lights of a warehouse on the pier. Inside, Lorenzo Valente's shipment of drugs sat waiting to be moved—an empire of powder and poison, traded in hushed deals and bloodstained agreements.

Vittorio smirked. Tonight, that empire would shake.

He lifted a hand, a simple gesture that sent his men into motion. They slipped into the darkness, swift and silent, their boots barely scuffing the ground. Within moments, they reached the warehouse, pressing against its cold steel walls. The guards stationed outside were efficient, well-trained, and loyal—but no one was untouchable.

A blade whispered against flesh. A body crumpled to the ground. The scent of iron spilled into the air.

The remaining guards barely had time to react before suppressed gunfire cut through the silence. Two more fell, their lifeless bodies slumping against the concrete. Vittorio stepped forward, his gaze never wavering.

"Move fast," he murmured. "We don't need the entire shipment—just enough to make Valente bleed."

His men obeyed, slipping into the warehouse like a phantom tide. Crates were pried open, kilos of powder-packed bricks slipping into waiting hands. The operation was swift, precise.

Then—

A shout.

The sharp crack of a gunshot.

The quiet unraveled into chaos.

More guards spilled in, their weapons raised, their shouts tearing through the air. The muzzle flash of gunfire illuminated the darkness in sharp, blinding bursts. Vittorio didn't flinch as bullets sliced past him—he was already moving, already firing.

The scent of gunpowder and blood thickened the night as men fell on both sides. Vittorio's men weren't unscathed, but they fought like devils—ruthless, unyielding.

A final shot rang out, followed by silence.

Vittorio exhaled, lowering his weapon. His gaze swept over the wreckage—the bodies, the scattered crates, the blood staining the ground. It wasn't a clean mission, but it was enough.

Lorenzo Valente would feel this.

He turned on his heel, stepping over a body without so much as a glance. His men followed, vanishing into the night like smoke, leaving behind nothing but carnage and a message.

Tonight, had been a mere distraction.

The real war had yet to begin

London, England

The dim glow of London's streetlights flickered against the rain-slicked pavement as Bianca Salvatore stepped out of the black cab. The cold night air bit at her exposed skin, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts were elsewhere, wrapped around a world she had been forced to leave behind. A world she would soon return to.

The soft click of her heels echoed as she walked into the grand entrance of her apartment building, a lavish structure in the heart of Kensington. The concierge nodded at her, but she barely acknowledged him, making her way straight to the private elevator. Inside her penthouse, the warmth of the space did little to thaw the ice in her veins.

She had spent years building a life here, separate from the bloodstained legacy of the Salvatore name. By all appearances, she was just Bianca—an elite woman with power, wealth, and an untouchable reputation. But beneath the polished exterior, she was more than that. She was a Salvatore, and blood always called its own.

The sudden buzz of her phone shattered the silence. She reached for it, and the moment she saw the name on the screen, her pulse spiked. Vittorio.

Without hesitation, she answered.

The conversation was brief, her expression unreadable as she listened to her cousin's words. Whatever he told her, it was enough to change everything. Enough to drag her back into the world she had tried to escape. When the call ended, she stood motionless, fingers tightening around the phone before she exhaled slowly.

Tomorrow.

She would be in Italy by tomorrow evening. 

Palermo Sicily, Italy

The warehouse stank of sweat, blood, and gasoline. Men in masks, dressed in black, moved like shadows in the dim light, loading crates of high-value narcotics into unmarked vehicles. The deal had been perfect—Lorenzo Valente's shipment was supposed to reach its buyer without issue. Except now, that plan was unraveling.

Vittorio Salvatore watched the operation unfold from a distance, the faint glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp angles of his face. This was only the beginning. Lorenzo Valente thought he was untouchable, but even kings could bleed. And tonight, he would make damn sure of it.

"Move faster," he ordered, voice low and lethal. His men obeyed without question. They had to be gone before Valente's people caught wind of this.

They almost succeeded.

The first gunshot rang out like a crack of thunder. Then chaos erupted.

Lorenzo's men swarmed the docks, weapons drawn, orders shouted into the night. The air filled with the deafening symphony of gunfire, metal clashing against metal, bodies hitting the ground. Vittorio pulled his gun, firing precise shots as he moved through the madness. His men were skilled, but so were Valente's. Blood stained the concrete, and for a moment, it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand.

By the time the dust settled, half the shipment was gone, but the damage was done. Lorenzo would see this as a declaration of war.

And that was exactly what Vittorio wanted.

The Black Law Mafia's Headquarters

Lorenzo Valente sat in his office, the scent of burning cigar lingering in the air as he listened to the report. His jaw tightened, fingers drumming against the mahogany desk as Enzo finished speaking.

"They took the shipment, boss. Half of it."

Silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Lorenzo leaned back, his dark gaze burning with cold fury. Then, without warning, he grabbed the glass of whiskey in front of him and hurled it against the wall. The sharp shatter of glass echoed through the room.

"So he wants a war," Lorenzo murmured, his voice dangerously calm. "Fine."

He pushed himself up, adjusting the cuffs of his black suit. "Get the men ready. We pay Salvatore a visit."

L'Ombra Rossa Headquarters

Vittorio had been expecting him.

When Lorenzo and his men arrived at the Salvatore estate, the tension in the air was electric. The moment the Black Law Mafia's leader stepped inside, weapons were drawn on both sides. It was a powder keg waiting for a spark.

Lorenzo strode forward with the confidence of a man who feared nothing. His piercing gaze locked onto Vittorio, and the room held its breath.

"You think you can steal from me and walk away unscathed?" Lorenzo's voice was ice, sharp enough to cut.

Vittorio smirked, lounging against the table as if none of this fazed him. "Oh, come now, Valente. Surely you didn't expect me to sit back and do nothing?"

The air thickened. Then, in a split second, the room erupted.

Gunfire tore through the space as both factions clashed. The deafening sound of bullets, the metallic scent of blood, the grunts of men as bodies hit the ground—it was war in its rawest form. Lorenzo moved through the chaos with deadly precision, a predator in his element. He reached Vittorio, dodging a swing before delivering a brutal punch to his jaw.

Vittorio stumbled but recovered quickly, his own fist slamming into Lorenzo's ribs. They fought with a ferocity born from years of hatred, neither willing to back down.

Then, Lorenzo pulled his gun.

A single shot rang out.

Vittorio gritted his teeth as pain flared through his leg, blood seeping into his expensive trousers. He barely registered his men calling out to him as Lorenzo stepped closer, his gun still trained on him.

"Consider this a warning," Lorenzo said, voice dark and unyielding. "Next time, I won't aim for the leg."

He turned on his heel and walked away, his men following. The moment the doors slammed shut behind them, the silence left in their wake was deafening.

Vittorio clenched his fists, rage coursing through his veins like fire. He pulled out his phone, dialing a familiar number.

Bianca answered immediately.

"You need to be here by tomorrow evening," Vittorio ordered, his voice thick with fury. "No more delays. I don't care what you have to do—just get on the goddamn plane."

There was a pause before her voice came through, calm yet edged with something dangerous. "I was already coming."

Vittorio exhaled, his grip tightening on the phone. "Good. Because I'm done playing games."

The line went dead.

Vittorio stared at the blood staining his hands, his mind already working through his next move. Lorenzo had fired the first real shot.

Now, it was time to end this.

And Bianca? She was the key to it all.