Chapter 10 – When the Smoke Clears
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Carmen's Ashes
The last embers of Carmen Vescari's estate still crackled as dawn broke over Valemont. The once-grand mansion stood in skeletal ruin—charred beams rising like blackened ribs against a gray morning sky. Fire trucks had long since departed. Police tape flapped in the cold wind, a formality no one respected.
Dante stood among the rubble, fists clenched, rage simmering just beneath the surface. Smoke curled around his boots. His eyes locked onto the twisted wreckage where the guest house had stood—where Carmen's maid and beloved Doberman had died, trapped behind a steel-reinforced door.
"She wasn't home," Killian said beside him. "But this was no warning. This was war."
Dante knelt and sifted through the ashes, retrieving a scorched photograph. It was Carmen and her husband, Sal, on their wedding day—her smile radiant, his pride barely masked behind a cigar.
"She was my last inside connection," Dante muttered. "And now Marco's put a price on every loyalty I had left."
Killian looked up at the blackened sky. "Then maybe it's time we stopped reacting."
Dante stood, his voice low. "We start cutting heads."
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The Network
Back at the safehouse, Killian unfurled a hand-drawn map across the concrete table in their war room. Colored pins marked territories—Vultures in red, Bratva in blue, Triad in green, and Eladio's splinters in yellow. Aria watched from the couch, her expression grim but determined.
"Marco's moving fast," Killian explained. "After last night's arson, he's absorbed two small crews and bribed three councilmen. He's consolidating not just force—but legitimacy. He's after more than revenge."
"He's after the city," Aria said.
Dante nodded. "He's trying to turn the underground into the foundation."
Killian jabbed at a red-marked district. "We need to take this back first—Salerno Avenue. Used to be Vulture territory. Now it's Eladio's meth hub. Hit it hard, burn the product, and make a statement."
Aria shifted. "And what about Carmen?"
"She's in hiding," Dante replied. "I've arranged protection. But we can't bring her out until we cut Marco off from the suppliers."
Killian grinned. "So we hit his wallet. I like it."
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Dante's Plan
They struck that night.
Dante led a five-man team—Killian, Milo, Sam, and two ex-military freelancers known only as Pike and Ghost. Dressed in tactical black, they moved through the shadows like wolves—silent, surgical, and unrelenting.
The meth lab was disguised as a laundromat, its back rooms heavily fortified. Security cameras covered the entrances, and three SUVs sat parked out front, engines warm.
Inside, ten men packaged product under UV lights, unaware that death stalked their doorway.
Dante entered first, shooting out the front camera. Then came flashbangs—exploding in light and thunder. Screams followed. Men scattered. A hail of gunfire erupted.
Within four minutes, the entire operation was reduced to ruin. Dante grabbed the lab manager, slammed him against the wall.
"Where's Eladio's next shipment headed?"
The man whimpered. "Dock 32! Friday! That's all I know, I swear!"
Dante crushed his radio and walked away as Killian lit the first barrel of crystal meth on fire.
The blaze swallowed the building.
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Back at the Safehouse – Aria's Growth
While the team was out, Aria trained.
Sam had become her instructor, teaching her Krav Maga in the courtyard behind the safehouse. She wore gloves now, fingers calloused, movements sharper than when they began. Every punch she threw was fueled by memory—of that van, of the stun grenade, of her helplessness.
"I don't want to be saved anymore," she whispered between drills. "I want to be dangerous."
Sam nodded. "Then stop pulling your punches."
She didn't.
Not anymore.
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Nico Verratti – A Cracking Throne
Nico sat alone in his penthouse suite, the skyline stretching beyond the bulletproof glass. He poured whiskey with shaking hands, the flames of Carmen's estate playing on a loop in his mind.
His empire was bleeding.
Dante was back. Eladio was moving in. His lieutenants were whispering behind closed doors.
And worst of all—
His conscience had begun to wake.
He looked at a framed photo of his brother, Luca. Ten years dead. Dante's fault—or so he told himself.
But in the quiet of night, he questioned that.
Was it Dante? Or had Nico orchestrated it to seize power?
He'd buried the truth beneath money and murder.
But now the grave was cracking open.
And ghosts were crawling out.
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Marco's Countermove
Eladio was furious.
The meth lab hit had cost him millions. But worse—it embarrassed him.
"You think I'll let this punk with daddy issues ruin everything I built?" he spat at his consigliere Paolo.
"We underestimated his reach," Paolo admitted. "And his alliances."
Marco snapped his fingers. "Then we target the alliances."
He opened a red folder—photos of Dante's known associates. Sam. Milo. Killian. Even Aria.
"Start with Killian. He's the brain. Take him out, the whole machine stutters."
Paolo nodded.
But Marco wasn't done.
"And make it public."
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The Attempt on Killian
Killian had just left an underground arms dealer near Bishop's Row when the first shot cracked across the alley. The bullet skimmed his arm, and he dropped behind a dumpster.
Another shot shattered the side mirror of his car.
Two attackers—silenced rifles, black masks, no insignia.
He rolled, pulled a Glock from his coat, and returned fire. One man dropped. The other tried to retreat—but Killian was faster.
A bullet to the knee.
He stormed over, kicked the rifle away, and tore off the mask.
The shooter was young—early twenties, tattooed, terrified.
"Who sent you?" Killian demanded.
The man spat blood. "You're already dead."
Killian pulled the trigger.
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The Confrontation Between Aria and Dante
Later that night, Killian returned to the safehouse bleeding. Dante stitched his arm without flinching, while Aria paced the room.
"You're all insane," she said, her voice cracking. "People are dying because of you."
Dante looked up. "Because of them, Aria. Not us."
"Is there even a difference anymore?"
He stood. "You want the truth? I'm not trying to save the world. I'm just trying to make sure they don't bury me again."
"Then why not leave? Why not take me and disappear?"
He hesitated.
Because he couldn't.
Because his vengeance was a chain he wasn't ready to break.
"I can't," he said finally. "Not yet."
Her voice softened. "Then tell me—how does this end?"
Dante looked her in the eyes.
"When he's dead. And I'm the last one standing."
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The Bomb
They didn't expect the bomb.
It was placed beneath the safehouse's rear generator—rigged with a silent trigger, activated remotely.
At exactly 3:12 A.M., while Dante and Killian argued in the kitchen and Aria tried to sleep—
The explosion shook the ground.
The walls crumbled.
Smoke choked the hallway.
Dante rushed toward Aria's room as debris fell from the ceiling. He found her dazed, coughing, trying to stand. Blood on her forehead.
He scooped her up, heart racing.
The roof began to collapse.
He burst through the front, leaping over fire, shielding her with his body.
The safehouse was gone.
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Aftermath
They regrouped at a secondary safehouse in the Bronx—smaller, darker, less fortified. Sam and Milo were already there, along with medical supplies.
Aria lay unconscious on the couch.
Killian stitched his own leg.
Dante stood over them all, face grim.
"They just made it personal," Killian said.
Dante's jaw tightened.
"No," he growled. "It was always personal."
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End of Chapter Hook
Outside, rain began to fall again—soft, steady.
But inside Dante's heart, the storm was just beginning.
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