"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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I stand, my polished shoes sinking into the blood-soaked carpet, the crimson pool spreading ever closer to my feet like some insidious omen. The scent of iron fills my lungs, but it doesn't choke me—it fuels something darker within. The room is suffocating in its silence, save for the hum of the distant city, oblivious to the carnage that lies within these walls. A contrast so stark, it feels like the world outside has abandoned this place to its violence.
I, Lorenzo Marchetti, heir to the Marzota Famiglia, future Capo—this is my birthright. Death, I've come to understand, is no stranger to me. It does not frighten me, nor does it make me recoil. But tonight, this death—it bears a weight I have yet to fully grasp. There is something different in the air, an acid sting that gnaws at the back of my throat. Personal.
I move forward, each step slow, deliberate, the tips of my shoes kissing the edges of the bloodstains with a reverence I cannot afford. The bodies of Gianni and Marco, two of our most trusted underbosses, lie sprawled at grotesque angles, their bodies too still. Their eyes, wide open, are empty—sightless, as though they are not staring into death, but into the abyss of what comes after. Their throats, slashed with the precision of a scalpel, a brutality so cold that I wonder if the killer finds some twisted comfort in the clean death they've delivered. The suits they wore, once sharp and dignified, now lie in ruin, their fabric stained with the lifeblood that once coursed through them.
But it is not the violence that shakes me. No, it is the cards—those damned cards—scattered like confetti around them. Aces, hearts, spades, diamonds, clubs—all arranged with a calm, methodical cruelty that sends a ripple of unease down my spine.
I crouch beside them, my fingers brushing against the ace of spades, its surface smooth and cold, just like the bodies around me. The black ink of the card is nearly indistinguishable against the darkening blood, a cruel illusion. Each card tells a story, I can feel it in my bones, but the tale is fragmented, incomplete—elusive. A puzzle I do not yet have the pieces to solve.
David's voice cuts through the silence, low, hesitant—an echo of the unease in my chest. "What do they mean, boss?"
I don't answer immediately. My mind races, turning over the possibilities like a deck of cards itself. In our world, messages come hidden in plain sight. But these? These cards? There is something wrong, something foreign about them. I find myself lost in thought, fingers tightening around the ace of spades as though it might somehow offer me an answer.
