Chapter 11: The Hunt Begins

Ethan Cole stood in the rain-soaked alley behind the warehouse, the echo of Moretti's mocking laughter still ringing in his ears. The night was heavy, the kind of damp cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Sarah Kane's blood still stained his hands, a grim reminder of Carver's betrayal. He'd watched her die, her last words a plea to finish what they'd started. Lily's dog tag weighed heavy in his pocket, its edges biting into his palm as he clenched it. Moretti had taken everything—his sister, his trust, his life—and now Ethan had nothing left but a burning need to make him pay.He pulled his jacket tighter against the downpour and slipped into the shadows, his boots splashing through puddles that reflected the city's neon glow. The warehouse was a crime scene now, crawling with cops who'd find nothing but bodies and questions. Carver had played them all, a snake hiding behind his badge, and Moretti was long gone, slinking back to whatever hole he called home. But Ethan wasn't done. Not even close. This wasn't just revenge anymore; it was a reckoning.His first stop was a dive bar on the east side, a grimy hole-in-the-wall called The Rusty Anchor. It was the kind of place where secrets were traded over cheap whiskey and nobody asked your name. Ethan pushed through the creaky door, the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke hitting him like a wave. The bartender, a grizzled man named Frankie with a glass eye and a permanent scowl, glanced up from wiping down the counter. "Cole," he grunted, his voice rough as gravel. "Heard you were dead.""Not yet," Ethan replied, sliding onto a stool. He tossed a crumpled twenty onto the bar. "Information. Moretti. Where's he hiding?"Frankie snorted, pouring a shot of bourbon without being asked. "You're chasing ghosts, man. Moretti's untouchable. Word is, he's got half the city in his pocket—cops, judges, you name it. Even the feds can't pin him down."Ethan leaned closer, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm not the feds. Tell me something useful, Frankie, or I start breaking things. Starting with that other eye."Frankie's scowl deepened, but he knew better than to push. "Alright, alright. Keep your shirt on. Heard a rumor he's got a safehouse uptown, some fancy penthouse nobody's supposed to know about. Guarded like a fortress, though. And there's talk of a big player backing him now—some heavy hitter from out of town. Nobody's saying names, but it's bigger than Moretti's usual crew."Ethan's jaw tightened. A bigger player? That explained Carver, maybe. Moretti was a snake, but he wasn't dumb enough to pull a stunt like the warehouse without serious muscle behind him. "Where's the penthouse?" Ethan pressed, downing the bourbon in one swallow. It burned, but it kept him sharp.Frankie hesitated, then scribbled an address on a napkin and slid it over. "You didn't get this from me. And Ethan? Watch your back. You're not just poking a hornet's nest—you're kicking it."Ethan pocketed the napkin and left without another word, the rain greeting him like an old friend as he stepped outside. Uptown was a different world, all glass towers and clean streets, a far cry from the gutters he knew. If Moretti was holed up there, he was playing a new game, one with higher stakes and deadlier players. Ethan didn't care. He'd tear through every penthouse in the city if it meant getting to him.The address led to a sleek high-rise, its mirrored windows reflecting the storm clouds above. Security was tight—cameras on every corner, a doorman who looked more like a linebacker, and a keycard system that screamed money. Ethan didn't have time for finesse. He circled to the back, finding a service entrance guarded by a single guy in a cheap suit. One well-placed punch later, the guard was out cold, and Ethan was inside, slipping through a maze of maintenance corridors until he reached the freight elevator.The penthouse was on the 40th floor, and the ride up felt like an eternity. Ethan checked his gun, a battered 9mm he'd taken from one of Moretti's men at the warehouse. Eight rounds left. Not much, but it'd have to do. His mind raced, piecing together what Frankie had said. A big player. Someone powerful enough to make Moretti untouchable, to turn Carver into a traitor. Whoever they were, they'd just made an enemy they didn't know they had.The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to a hallway lined with polished marble and soft lighting. Two guards stood at the far end, chatting quietly. Ethan moved fast, silent as a ghost, and took them down before they could reach for their radios—one with a chokehold, the other with a knee to the gut. He dragged their bodies into a closet and pressed on, his heart pounding but his hands steady.The penthouse door was heavy oak, no lock he could pick. Ethan didn't bother knocking. He kicked it open, splintering the frame, and stepped inside. The room was a palace—plush carpets, crystal chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. But it was empty. No Moretti, no guards, just silence. Ethan's gut twisted. A trap? Or had Frankie's tip been bad?He moved deeper, checking every room. In the study, he found something: a desk littered with papers, maps, and photos. One caught his eye—a grainy shot of a man he didn't recognize, mid-50s, with a scar across his cheek and eyes like a predator. A note was pinned to it: "Donati. Meeting. Midnight. Docks." Donati. The name hit like a punch. Lorenzo Donati, head of the Donati crime family, a mafia legend who operated out of the East Coast. If Moretti was working with him, Ethan wasn't just up against a snake; he was facing a dragon.A creak behind him made Ethan spin, gun raised. A woman stood in the doorway, her red hair cascading over a tailored suit, a smirk playing on her lips. "Ethan Cole," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "You're persistent, I'll give you that.""Who are you?" Ethan growled, his aim locked on her chest."Call me Elena," she replied, unfazed. "I work for someone who's very interested in you. Lorenzo Donati sends his regards." She tilted her head, studying him like a cat with a cornered mouse. "You're chasing Moretti, but you're in over your head. Walk away now, and you might live."Ethan's grip tightened on the gun. "Not happening. Moretti's mine. And if Donati's backing him, he's next."Elena laughed, a soft, chilling sound. "Bold. Stupid, but bold. You've got no idea what you're stepping into, do you?" She stepped closer, her heels clicking on the hardwood. "This isn't just about Moretti anymore. It's bigger. Walk away, Ethan. Last chance."He didn't blink. "Tell Donati I'm coming for him. And tell Moretti to sleep with one eye open."Elena's smirk faded, replaced by something colder. "Your funeral." She turned and vanished into the hall, leaving Ethan alone with the papers and his rage. He grabbed the photo of Donati and stuffed it into his jacket. The docks at midnight. That was his next move.As he slipped out of the penthouse, the rain had stopped, leaving the city slick and gleaming under the streetlights. Ethan's path was clear now. Moretti was just the beginning. Donati, Carver, the whole rotten empire—they'd all fall. He'd burn it down brick by brick if he had to. For Lily. For Sarah. For every drop of blood they'd spilled.The docks weren't far, but midnight was hours away. Ethan moved through the city like a shadow, every step heavier with purpose. He wasn't just hunting anymore. He was at war.