Chapter 17: Blood and clues
800 Words
The rhythm of gunfire clashed with the pulsing bass, a deadly symphony playing beneath the flashing neon lights. The club, once filled with music and laughter, was now a battlefield.
Victor moved like a ghost through the chaos, ducking behind overturned furniture, his gun barking in precise bursts. Screams blended into the pounding music, patrons scrambling for exits as bodies dropped around him.
Lyon, grinning like a lunatic, fired off a shot before diving behind the bar. “I gotta say, cugino, you sure know how to show a guy a good time!”
“Shut up and shoot,” Victor muttered, reloading his gun.
Luca was already on the move, his men spreading out in formation, cutting off any chance for their attackers to regroup.
But Victor’s eyes were locked on one target—the man with the scar slicing across his cheek, weaving through the panicked crowd, heading for the back exit.
A face from his past. A lead he couldn't afford to lose.
With a sharp breath, Victor vaulted over the booth, pushing past screaming civilians, gun raised as he pursued the ghost.
The club’s kitchen doors swung open as the scar-faced man shoved through, knocking over a server in his escape.
Victor burst in a second later, his steps calculated, his breath steady. The scent of alcohol and blood hung thick in the air as his boots echoed against the tiled floor.
He spotted movement.
The bastard was sprinting through the back alley.
Victor wasted no time. He gave chase.
The Hunt Begins
The moment Victor hit the alley, the night swallowed him whole. The air was thick with tension, the streetlights casting eerie shadows along the damp pavement.
Ahead, Scarface was sprinting, dodging through a maze of dumpsters and parked cars, desperate to escape.
Victor didn't bother shouting after him. There was no warning.
Only action.
He raised his gun, firing a warning shot that shattered the windshield of a nearby car. The man stumbled but didn’t stop.
Victor pushed harder, his legs burning as he closed the distance.
Scarface skidded around a corner, disappearing into the depths of the city.
Victor followed.
This was no ordinary hit squad. The way they moved, the way they targeted him specifically—someone was playing a bigger game.
Someone who wanted Victor out of the picture.
A second later, Scarface took a hard left into an abandoned warehouse, its steel doors hanging off their hinges.
Victor slowed, heart pounding, his instincts on high alert.
He stepped inside, gun steady, eyes adjusting to the darkness. The space smelled of rust and damp wood, the remnants of a long-forgotten past lingering in the air.
The silence was deafening.
Then—movement.
A shadow lunged from the darkness.
Victor barely dodged as a knife swiped past his throat.
He twisted, catching a glimpse of Scarface’s snarling expression before he countered, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs.
A grunt of pain.
Scarface staggered back, but Victor was relentless. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the floor.
A struggle. Desperate. Brutal.
Victor slammed him against a rusted pillar, pinning him with sheer strength.
The man gasped, struggling, but Victor pressed the barrel of his gun beneath his chin.
"Talk," Victor commanded, voice deathly calm. "Who sent you?"
Scarface spat blood, smirking. "You think I'm afraid of you, Moretti?"
Victor c****d the gun. "You should be."
Silence.
Scarface exhaled a sharp breath, his smirk faltering. Fear crept into his eyes.
"I talk, I'm dead anyway," he muttered.
Victor’s grip tightened. "Then let me decide which death is quicker."
A pause. A beat too long.
Then—a whisper.
A name.
Victor's blood ran cold.
Rican.
Before he could react, Scarface jerked forward, a sick grin twisting his lips.
A sharp crack echoed in the warehouse.
Scarface went limp in Victor's hold, a clean bullet hole between his eyes.
Victor turned sharply, gun raised—
But the shooter was already gone.
All that remained was the distant sound of footsteps fading into the night.
The Aftermath
Victor stood there for a moment, the weight of the name echoing in his mind.
Don Rican.
His fingers curled around his gun, his jaw clenched.
He had always suspected. He had always known Rican was more involved than he let on.
But now?
Now, he had proof.
He turned, stepping out of the warehouse just as Lyon and Luca came sprinting toward him.
Lyon skidded to a stop, breathless. “Jesus, what happened?”
Victor exhaled, shoving his gun back into his holster.
“We have a problem,” he muttered.
Luca frowned. “What kind of problem?”
Victor’s eyes darkened, his mind already calculating his next move.
“The kind that ends with Rican buried six feet under
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