The call
The city was quieter than usual that night. Snowflakes drifted lazily onto the deserted streets, muffling the sounds of distant traffic. Luca Romano sat in his modest high-rise apartment overlooking the Chicago skyline, the faint glow of the city’s neon lights casting long shadows on the walls. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the coffee table beside a stack of opened letters and a loaded revolver.
Luca hadn’t intended to spend the evening brooding, but life in the Romano family left little room for peace of mind. At 34, he had carved out a reputation as the family’s problem solver. He didn’t need the muscle or bravado his older brother Marco flaunted; his weapon of choice was his intellect. But even Luca knew that brains couldn’t always keep blood off your hands.
His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. Glancing at the clock—2:04 a.m.—he hesitated before answering. Calls at this hour were never good news.
“Yeah?” Luca said, his voice gravelly from disuse.
“It’s Carlo,” the voice on the other end replied, rushed and tense. Carlo was one of Luca’s closest allies within the Romano family. While others saw Carlo as little more than a middle-tier enforcer, Luca had always appreciated his sharp instincts and unwavering loyalty.
“What’s going on?” Luca asked, already bracing for the answer.
“It’s Marco,” Carlo said, pausing for a beat. “He’s been hit.”
Luca sat up straighter, his mind instantly racing. “How bad?”
“He’s alive,” Carlo said, though his tone carried little relief. “Barely. The hit went down outside Bianchi’s restaurant. Marco was leaving with his crew when a black sedan rolled up. Automatic fire. A setup, Luca.”
The mention of Bianchi’s struck a nerve. The restaurant had been a neutral meeting ground for decades, a place where deals were made and wars were avoided. To spill blood there was to spit on years of unspoken agreements.
“Who’s behind it?” Luca asked, his voice tightening.
“Word on the street says it’s the Mancinis,” Carlo replied. “But something feels off. It’s too bold, even for them.”
Luca clenched his jaw. The Mancinis were their primary rivals, controlling much of the city’s south side. The two families had been locked in a cold war for years, each careful not to provoke an all-out conflict. If this was their move, it meant they were ready to risk everything.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Luca said before hanging up.
He grabbed his coat and slid the revolver into its holster. His mind was already working through scenarios. If the Mancinis were responsible, this could mean the start of a full-scale war. But Carlo’s hesitation runs through in Luca’s mind. Something about this didn’t feel right.
As he stepped into the freezing night air, Luca’s resolve hardened. Marco was the heir to the Romano empire, but if there was one thing Luca knew, it was that a throne built on blood never stayed steady for long.
