Gunfire thundered through the warehouse, echoing across the waterfront of New York City. Concrete splintered. Sparks flew as bullets struck steel beams.
Luca pressed Anthony Russo against the cold floor behind a thick support column.
"They're not with you?" Luca demanded.
Anthony's face had gone pale, but his eyes were sharp. "No. My father would never risk killing me."
Another round of gunfire ripped through the warehouse doors.
Luca calculated quickly.
If this was neither Moretti nor Russo, then someone had been waiting for the two families to collide.
Someone patient.
Someone strategic.
Outside, tires screeched. Doors slammed. Shouts overlapped.
"Clear the building!"
The shooters were sweeping inward.
Luca grabbed Anthony's zip ties and cut them with a small blade hidden in his sleeve.
Anthony looked at him, surprised. "You're freeing me?"
"I'm not dying tonight," Luca replied. "And neither are you."
Anthony flexed his wrists, then scanned the chaos around them.
"You have a plan?"
"Always."
Luca pulled a pistol from his coat and fired three controlled shots toward the far end of the warehouse—not to hit anyone, but to force movement.
Then he kicked over a stack of old metal barrels.
The crash echoed loudly.
"Fire exit," Luca said.
They moved low and fast, using the confusion as cover. Smoke from gunpowder filled the air, stinging their eyes.
A masked gunman rounded the corner ahead of them.
Anthony reacted first—tackling the man before he could aim. The gun slid across the floor. Luca grabbed it and fired once.
The shooter dropped.
Anthony stared down at the body. "That wasn't Russo."
"No," Luca said coldly. "It wasn't."
They reached the side door just as sirens grew louder—police units converging from multiple directions.
Someone had tipped them off.
Inside a surveillance van parked near Brooklyn Bridge, Detective Isabella Reyes watched the chaos unfold through binoculars.
Her radio crackled with incoming units.
She frowned.
This wasn't what she expected.
She had anticipated a quiet exchange—or a calculated execution.
Not a massacre.
"Multiple unidentified shooters," her partner reported, listening to police chatter. "No clear affiliation."
Isabella lowered the binoculars slowly.
A third faction.
She felt a cold realization settle in.
If another organization was moving into the city, the Moretti-Russo war might only be the beginning.
And whoever these new players were—they were bold enough to attack both heirs at once.
Outside the warehouse, Luca and Anthony slipped through a narrow alley as flashing red-and-blue lights painted the brick walls.
They stopped beneath a broken streetlamp, breathing heavily.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Finally, Anthony broke the silence.
"This changes things."
"Yes," Luca agreed.
Anthony looked at him carefully. "You could've left me in there."
"You could've left me too," Luca replied.
A strange understanding passed between them.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But clarity.
"We've been manipulated," Anthony said quietly. "Someone wants us at war."
"They got it," Luca answered.
Anthony shook his head. "No. They want us distracted."
Police sirens grew closer.
"We can't be seen together," Anthony said. "If either family finds out—"
"They'll assume betrayal," Luca finished.
Anthony stepped back. "We meet tomorrow. Alone. Neutral ground."
Luca hesitated only briefly, then nodded. "You'll come alone."
"So will you."
They separated in opposite directions just as police cars flooded the street.
Hours later, Luca stood once again inside the Moretti estate.
The dining room was silent.
Don Alessandro sat in darkness, lit only by the glow of a desk lamp.
"You failed to secure the hostage," the Don said calmly.
"There was interference," Luca replied.
"Russo?"
"No."
That word hung in the air.
Don Alessandro's eyes sharpened. "Explain."
Luca stepped forward.
"A third organization attacked the warehouse. They tried to eliminate both of us."
A long silence followed.
"That's impossible," Vittorio muttered from the shadows. "No one is strong enough."
"Someone thinks they are," Luca said firmly.
Don Alessandro stood slowly.
"For decades," he said, "this city has been divided between two families."
His gaze darkened.
"If someone believes they can take it from us… they are mistaken."
Luca studied his uncle carefully.
War had been declared—but not by the Russos.
The board had expanded.
New pieces were moving.
And whoever had fired those first bullets tonight had just united two enemies without realizing it.
Outside, dawn began to rise over New York City.
A new chapter of violence was about to begin.