The Fall Of Rocco Serra

The corridor narrowed as Luca moved deeper into the belly of the mansion, his boots barely making a sound against the polished marble floor. The air was different here, thicker, heavier, like history itself had settled in the walls and refused to let go. Dim chandeliers flicked above him, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts of the past.

He passed beneath an archway carved with the Serra family crest, a lion devouring a serpent, and stepped into a grand hallway lined with portraits. Generations of Rocco's bloodline stared down at him, their eyes hollow, their mouths frozen in expressions of power and cruelty. At the far end, a pair of black double doors stood tall, framed in gold filigree.

Luca stopped just short of them.

This was it.

Don Rocco Serra waited inside.

He adjusted his grip on the M4a1, then slowly reached for the Glock 19, thumb brushing over the safety switch before slipping it back into his holster. He wasn't going to kill Rocco with bullets alone. Not tonight.

Tonight, he would make him understand.

With a deep breath, Luca pushed open the doors.

The room beyond was vast, opulent, and cold. A domed ceiling arched overhead, painted with frescoes of saints and sinners locked in eternal battle. Marble columns rose like pillars of judgment. And in the center of it all, seated behind a long oak table, was Don Rocco Serra.

He didn't look surprised.

Rocco sat like a king in exile, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, hands folded, eyes sharp despite the years. A single glass of wine rested beside a leather-bound ledger. His face was weathered, lined with decades of betrayal and survival.

"You made it," Rocco said, voice smooth as aged whiskey.

Luca stepped forward, boots echoing like gunshots.

"I always would."

Rocco exhaled through his nose, studying him like a man staring at his own reflection in a broken mirror.

"Seeing that you're here I'm guessing you've killed my men, Including my right hand-man Vince Lanza. You're standing in my throne room with blood on your hands. I assume you came to finish something."

Luca nodded once. "I did."

Rocco leaned forward slightly. "And what exactly are you finishing, boy?"

Luca's jaw tightened. "You killed my father."

A flicker of confusion crossed Rocco's face. Then amusement.

"Your father?" he asked, tilting his head. "Vittorio Varga? Or Anton?"

"No," Luca said, stepping closer. "Giovanni Moretti."

Silence.

The name hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire.

Rocco's expression shifted, just slightly. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A narrowing of his eyes.

Then realization.

"You're..." he whispered.

Luca nodded. "His son. The child Giovanni never got to raise. The one Anton took in to protect me from you."

Rocco sat back, stunned into silence for the first time in decades.

Luca continued, voice low but cutting.

"My real father was Anton's closest ally. Your brother in arms. But you saw him as a threat. So you had him killed after him and Anton joined hands. Left me orphaned. Anton too me and raised me as his grandson and Vittorio's son. Gave me his name. Taught me everything. And still, you came for him too. For Vittorio. For everyone I cared about and they cared about me."

Rocco's fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass.

"So Vittorio had a son" he murmured. "It's a pity I didn't know... Anton never told me."

"Well he had a reason," Luca spat. "Had I died back then in that fire you would've lived freely after killing my grandfather, Anton, but I suppose fate is a bitch because here I am. Still standing. Breathing. "

Rocco looked at him now not as an enemy, but as a ghost. A reckoning.

"And now you're here," Rocco said quietly. "To avenge both your families, huh? To take back what I took from you, to take what's left of me."

Luca stepped forward until they were only feet apart.

"You destroyed and took everything from me," he said. "Every person who mattered. Every reason I had to live. But I lived anyway. For this."

Rocco didn't flinch. Didn't beg. Didn't move.

Instead, he looked up at Luca with tired eyes.

"Well... Do it, then," he said.

Luca pulled the Glock 19 from his holster, chambering a round with a quiet click. He held it steady, arm outstretched, aiming directly between Rocco's eyes.

For a moment, he hesitated.

Not out of fear.

But because this moment had been coming for so long, it felt surreal that it was finally here.

"This is for Giovanni... Vittorio... Anton," he said.

Bang.

Rocco's head snapped back, a red bloom spreading across his forehead like ink in water.

The body slumped forward, knocking over the wine glass. Red liquid spilled across the ledger like blood on paper.

Luca stood there, breathing hard, heart pounding. "I've done it Anton... Vittorio... Giovanni."

It was done.

Don Rocco Serra was dead.

Outside, sirens wailed in the distance. The city stirred like it could feel the weight of what had just happened.

Luca turned away from the corpse without looking back.

He walked toward the doors, Glock still in hand, the echoes of history trailing behind him.

Alone.

Free.

And finally… avenged.