The storm broke before dawn.
Naples woke to the sound of gunfire echoing across the port. Smoke curled over the horizon like the breath of some ancient beast, and fishermen who dared venture too close swore they saw bodies floating in the tide, their hands still bound.
By the time the church bells rang for morning mass, the whispers had already begun.
Damian Moretti struck back.
He didn’t wait for war. He declared it.
---
Damian’s knuckles were bloodied when he tossed his gloves onto the mahogany desk. His men filed into the study one by one, smelling of gunpowder and sea salt, their faces grim but proud.
“It’s done,” Carlo reported. “The Rossi shipments burned. The docks theirs no more.”
“And the men guarding them?” Damian asked, though he already knew.
Matteo’s voice was flat. “
