OWED BY THE ENEMY

SERAFINA The city was reduced to a swirl of silver light and shadows as the rain fell in unrelenting sheets. Despite the storm seeping through her black clothing, Serafina De Luca lay flat on the chilly rooftop with a steady pulse. Like an old companion, the sniper rifle leaned against her shoulder. Luxurious vehicles drove through the hotel's private entrance below. Then he showed up. Sokolov Nikolai. The actual monster. He was noticeable even at this distance. Men circled him like satellites circling a lethal planet. As he exited the armored vehicle, his black cloak billowed behind him. Death, brutality, and power. It was evident in every aspect of him. Serafina gripped the weapon more tightly. "Just one shot," she muttered. Matteo has one chance. The memory brutally struck her. Beside her on the Sicilian rocks was Matteo Romano, laughing. When they were sixteen, Matteo showed her how to ride a motorbike. Matteo assured her that he would always keep her safe, regardless of what transpired between their families. The phone call then arrived. The body, the gunshot wound. The gossip. Nikolai Sokolov ordered the execution. She had been carrying that grief like a knife under her ribs for three years. She had been dreaming of this moment for three years. She placed her finger on the trigger. Nikolai's chest was precisely in line with the crosshairs. A slow inhalation. A hug. Through the darkness, the gun cracked. She felt a brief wave of satisfaction. Nikolai then made a move, not ducking. I didn't flinch. Moved. It was as though he had seen the shot coming before she fired it. Behind him, the gunshot shattered a marble column. In an instant, chaos erupted. Men with guns swarmed through the door. Draw your weapons. Shouting, looking. However, Nikolai maintained his composure. He raised his head slowly. His eyes were fixed on the rooftop. Right on her, Serafina felt her stomach turn. Not possible. He couldn't possibly see her. However, there was an intentional quality to that cold gaze. Both predatory and personal. His mouth curled upward at the corner. Not a grin. A caution. a challenge. A pledge. A shiver ran down her back. Then his hand vanished into his coat. Every instinct cried out. Run. Just as a bullet slammed against the concrete next to her head, she grabbed the gun and scurried back. Her face was covered in dust. There was another shot. Nearer. Exactly. Nikolai wasn't firing indiscriminately. He was fully aware of her location. Serafina also understood a horrifying prospect for the first time since Matteo's death. It's possible that the man she wanted to be murdered was far more dangerous than she had thought. It's possible that the man she wanted dead was far more dangerous than she had anticipated. Another bullet hit the roof. Concrete exploded near Serafina's hand. She cursed and threw herself behind a ventilation unit, her heart pounding against her ribcage. The rain obscured her escape as she slipped into the darkness. NIKOLIA Nikolai dropped his weapon. "She escaped." His voice was free of frustration. No disappointments. Only certainty. His cousin and second-in-command, Viktor Sokolov, adjusted his cufflinks. Should I send guys after her? Nikolai put the weapon back under his coat. Viktor was taken aback when he heard the word "No." The entire city was aware of what had occurred to those who had been foolish enough to attack Sokolov. They vanished. Their bodies would occasionally reappear. Usually, they didn't. Nikolai, on the other hand, was content to gaze at the empty rooftop. He gave a slight smile. "Let her run." Viktor examined him closely. "You know who it was." It was not a question. Nikolai's silence was sufficient as a response. Serafina de Luca. Princess of the Italian syndicate. Every time they crossed paths, she stared at him as if she intended to shoot him in the head. Most men would have found that irritating. Nikolai found it humorous. The convoy resumed movement. Ten armored vehicles surrounded him as they drove away from the hotel. A movable fortification. Precautions for the heir to Europe's most fearsome Bratva family. The Sokolov name was powerful in every criminal circle, from Moscow to London, New York to Dubai. Politicians owe them favors. Judges dreaded them. Police commissioners received the payment. Entire governments preferred not to get in the way. By the age of thirty-two, Nikolai had established himself as one of the organization's most powerful men. Where others used physical force, he favored calculation instead. Patience. Control. This combination made him far more dangerous than the guys who came before him. The convoy reached the heavily defended Sokolov estate. The steel gates opened without delay. Armed guards stood at the perimeter walls, their guns visible beneath the floodlights. Beyond them extended acres of private land, woodlands, training fields, and a mansion that seemed more like a fortress than a home. This wasn't just a home. It was the center of the Sokolov empire. The truck came to a halt beneath the enormous entrance. Nikolai stepped outside. Inside, decades of power awaited. His grandpa, Aleksandr Sokolov, sat at the head of the family table even in his old age. The man was a legend among the Bratva. Entire organizations had vanished as a result of a single order from him. Beside him stood his wife, Valentina Sokolov, a lady whose serene smile belied a steely wit that many men had misread only once. Mikhail Sokolov, Nikolai's father, dominated the empire. The unquestioned leader of Sokolov Bratva. Cold. Merciless. Untouchable. The criminal underworld addressed his name with the same caution that ordinary people reserve for natural disasters. Then there was Nikolai's mother, Elena Sokolov. Elegant and composed. Unlike her husband, she seldom raised her voice. She never had to. Elena's one look silenced a room full of scary guys. They had formed a dynasty that spanned continents. Enemies feared this family. Allies regard him highly. And safeguarded by blood-bought allegiance. As Nikolai mounted the mansion steps, rain falling behind him, he peered up at the estate's lighted windows. It was his legacy. A monarchy founded on bloodshed. A dynasty designed to endure forever. Nikolai walked inside the mansion doors. Warm light spread across the smooth marble floors. The aroma of cigar smoke and aged whiskey hung in the air, familiar and unchanging. The Sokolov empire existed because generations before him refused to bow. And De Luca was the reason why the lesson was learned. As Nikolai removed his coat, his gaze was drawn to a big oil painting hanging above the stairs. The portrait showed his great-grandfather, Dmitri Sokolov. Many people believed that he was responsible for starting the conflict. At least that's what the Italians said. History was about perspective. The truth had been buried behind so much blood that no one knew where the feud had really started. Some claim it began about a century ago, when a De Luca don betrayed a lucrative weapons relationship with the Bratva and fled with millions of dollars in gold and guns. Others claimed that a Sokolov patriarch murdered an Italian underboss during a peace agreement and instigated the war himself. Neither party agreed. Neither side cared. The reason was no longer important. Only hatred remained. One murder resulted in two. Two became ten. Then it became war. The war became a tradition. For decades, the De Luca’s and Sokolov’s transformed entire cities into battlegrounds. Ships transporting contraband unexpectedly exploded at sea. Safehouses were burnt to the ground. Men disappeared in the night. The bodies emerged in ports, forests, rivers, and abandoned warehouses. Every killing prompted revenge. Each reaction required vengeance. The score between the families became so huge that no one could keep track anymore. Nikolai's grandfather, Aleksandr, had lost two brothers before he was thirty. One was shot outside a church in broad daylight. The other disappeared during discussions in Naples and has never been discovered. His father, Mikhail, escaped three assassination attempts before inheriting the Bratva. The first left scars on his chest. The second killed six bodyguards. The third ended with an entire De Luca crew being eliminated in forty-eight hours. Violence was not just a part of their history. It was the foundation of their existence. Even youngsters have inherited the fight. Nikolai learned three rules as soon as he could understand. Protect the family. Honor the Bratva. Never trust a De Luca. The final lesson had been repeated so many times that it had become instinctive. Like breathing. Like violence. Serafina De Luca had most certainly grown up hearing similar warnings throughout the world. Never trust a Sokolov. Never lower your guard. Never forget what was taken from us. This was the true venom of the conflict. Not the bullets. Not the bloodbath. Not even their bodies. The animosity persisted because each generation carefully transmitted it to the next. And now, decades later, the De Lucas and Sokolov families stood exactly where their ancestors had stood. Still fighting. Still murdering. Still keeping score. It was as if neither family understood how to live without the war.