The desert wind howled like a wounded animal, scattering dust across the lifeless hills of northern Syria. Damian Solina crouched behind a crumbled stone wall, heartbeat steady, eyes locked on a distant window through the scope of his rifle.
"Target confirmed. Window, third floor, northeast corner," his voice crackled softly through the comms.
"Copy, Solina. You're clear to engage," came the reply.
One breath in.
One heartbeat.
One shot.
The glass shattered. A body slumped backward out of sight. Silence followed.
Damian lowered the rifle, exhaling slowly. He wasn't proud of what he did—but he was good at it. Better than anyone he knew. And in a place like this, being the best meant people came home alive.
As the extraction chopper lifted off thirty minutes later, the call came through.
A secure line.
Unfamiliar code.
Urgent clearance.
He hesitated before answering. Whatever it was, it didn't sound like an order from above. Not military.
Not his world.
"Solina."
The voice on the other end was low. Italian. Measured.
"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this... but your father is dead."
Silence.
The rotors thundered in his ears, but the rest of the world went numb. Time froze.
Gerard Solina. Mafia Don. The man Damian had spent his whole life outrunning.
Murdered.
"How?" he asked flatly.
"They tore him apart. Public. Message sent. The family's in chaos."
Family.
That word dug into him like a blade.
"You should come home," the voice said. "Even if it's just for the funeral."
Damian didn't respond. He stared out at the horizon—dry, cracked, hostile. A reflection of the world inside him.
He hadn't been "home" in over a decade. Never planned to. He'd built a new one here—among warriors, not criminals. Brothers in arms, not blood.
But now...
Now the past had come knocking.
And it wasn't asking.
He hadn't been "home" in over a decade. Never planned to. He'd built a new one here—among warriors, not criminals. Brothers in arms, not blood.
But now...
Now the past had come knocking.
And it wasn't asking.
FLASHBACK: New York, 12 Years Ago
Rain hammered the windows of the Solina estate. Damian, barely seventeen, stood in front of his father's massive desk, fists clenched at his sides.
"You carry our name," Gerard growled. "You owe something to this family."
"No," Damian spat. "I don't owe you anything. I didn't choose this life—you did."
Gerard leaned forward, the weight of his power filling the room like smoke. "Then run, boy. But remember this: One day, you'll come back. Not because you want to... but because you'll have to."
BACK TO PRESENT
Damian blinked.
Twelve years.
Twelve years since he walked away.
And now, the man he once called a monster was dead.
And whether he liked it or not... Gerard Solina was still his father.
He finally spoke into the comm.
"Pilot. Change of plans. I need a flight to New York."
John F. Kennedy Airport — 02:11 AM
The private terminal was quiet, sterile. No press. No questions. Just shadows and silence.
Damian descended the jet's narrow stairs, boots hitting the tarmac with the same quiet weight they had in enemy territory. He wore a plain black coat, collar up, sleeves tight. Underneath: cold steel tension.
Three people waited near a black SUV.
Three familiar silhouettes he hadn't seen in over a decade.
His sister was the first to speak.
"Look who finally came crawling back."
Lucia Solina.
The eldest. Poised like a queen, eyes sharp as razors. Her black dress clung to her like armor, heels clicking like gunfire on the pavement.
Behind her stood his brothers:
Marco, tall, heavy-shouldered, face carved with resentment.
Enzo, leaner, younger by a few years, but with that twitchy, arrogant energy of a man who'd never truly been hit in the face.
Damian didn't break stride. He walked straight toward them, not flinching when Lucia stepped into his path.
"Say something," she said.
He looked her dead in the eyes.
"You look tired."
Lucia smirked. "Ten years and you're still a smartass."
"Ten years and you're still pretending to run this place."
Enzo let out a short laugh. "Heh. The soldier has jokes."
Marco folded his arms. "You've got nerve, showing up like this. After turning your back on all of us."
Damian turned to him. "I didn't turn my back. I escaped."
Silence. Tension. You could cut it with a switchblade.
Lucia stepped in again, this time with something colder in her voice.
"You think wearing a uniform makes you clean? That the blood on our hands doesn't stain yours, too?"
Damian's expression didn't change.
"I kill for a cause. You kill for profit."
Enzo scoffed. "Oh please. You're not some hero, Damian. You're just another trained dog. Bet your army buddies don't even know who your daddy was."
That's when Damian stepped closer.
Close enough for Enzo to feel the weight behind the calm.
"You're right. They don't. But I know who I am."
He paused.
"And if I were you, I'd stop assuming I'm the same scared kid who ran away."
Marco narrowed his eyes. "Or what?"
Damian didn't answer.
He just walked past them and climbed into the back of the SUV.
Lucia watched him go. Her jaw tightened, but there was something else in her eyes now—uncertainty.
"...He's different," she muttered.
"Yeah," Enzo said, still smirking. "Acting like he's Jason Bourne or some sh—"
Marco cut him off. "Shut up. You didn't see his eyes."
Inside the SUV
Damian stared out the tinted window as the city bled past in neon streaks. Familiar streets. Familiar rot.
The driver, some nameless goon, cleared his throat.
"Sir... uh, Mr. Damian. You should know... people are watching. After the Don's death, a lotta sharks came out."
Damian didn't blink.
"Good. Let them circle."
[End of Chapter I]
"You don't make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home. The rest is bullshit and you know it."
-Martin Scorsese