The Mafia Prince's obsession (MM)

Elijah

The sharp vibration of Dante's phone against the table shatters the quiet clink of silverware. I look up mid-bite, startled, but Dante is already standing, already answering.

"Yes?"

His voice drops an octave. Tense. Cold. As he listens.

"They did what?"
Silence. His eyes narrow. "When?"
A beat, "How many casualties?"
Another pause. "Get everyone on standby. I'm coming."

He ends the call without another word. I stand up, confused. "What's going on?"

He looks at me for a heartbeat too long. Like he wants to say something but can't– or won't. Instead, he steps forward and briefly brushes my shoulder and kisses my forehead.

"I'll explain later. Lock the doors. Don't open for anyone but me, the twins, or Alessandro."

"Dante —"

"I'll come back," he says. "Just....trust me."

And with that, he was gone.

______________________________________

                            Dante

By nightfall, I had put the Markov estate on full lockdown.

News broke within the hour—
A Visconti warehouse in Turin has been raided. Not by police. Not by outsiders.

By someone on the inside, and all evidence pointed to a mole planted by the Markov's.

Which isn't true.

But it doesn't matter.

Viscontis retaliated without warning. Storming one of our properties on the outskirts of Florence. Two men dead. One . The message was clear: War has begun.

I didn't wait for permission.

By midnight, I had mobilized our best men. Luca and Luke were already running black, marked recon through Eastern Europe, and Alessandro has pulled a favor from an ex-military arms dealer.

It wasn't just about territory anymore.

It was personal.

It was bloody.

And no one was safe.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The warehouse smelled of smoke and steel.

Gunfire cracked in the distance like an angry God clapping thunder across the sky. Inside the rusted structure, the shadows danced in strobe like flashes of muzzle fire, the screams of wounded men mixing with the ringing in my ears. Blood slicked the cement floor –some of it, my men's, most of it not.

I move with precision, sweeping left through a row of crates, my gun hot in my hand, sweat slick on my skin. Bullets crack past my head as I duck into cover.

Another Markov soldier —Dmitri barrels past me and fired into the shadows, dropping two Visconti men who had tried to flank us.

"Warehouse breach confirmed," Luca's voice crackles through my earpiece. "They're collapsing. We've git them."

"Push harder," I ordered. "Sweep right. Cut off their retreat. No survivors from the Assembly."

This wasn't a turf fight.

This was a purge.

And it was long overdue.

The Assembly—Visconti's old gaurd, the bloated bureaucrats, the greedy patriarchs who orchestrated violence from gold-gilded boardroom—were all her tonight, huddled like cowards in this rotting warehouse.

I'm going to end this.

But I won't be doing it alone.

A single, brutal shot cracks through the din–louder, final. I turn towards the upper level –towards the office overlooking the floor. Where Mr Visconti had set up a temporary command.

There was a scream. Then another shot.

And silence.

From the smoke emerged Vincenzo Visconti.

His silhouette moved down the metal steps like a king descending from a bloody throne. His white shirt soaked through with blood that wasn't his. His hands were stained red. In one, he held a pistol still smoking from it's final act of justice.

Behind him, through the shattered glass of the office window, I could just barely make out the crumpled body of Mr Visconti, shot through the mouth, the head blown out across the table.

"Is it done?" I call out, stepping into the open, riffle still aimed but lowering slightly.

Vincenzo nods, slowly. Calm. Unshaken. "The old man is dead. The Assembly's heads are in pieces. We did what we promised.

I let out a quiet breath. "Then we finish this."

Vincenzo's mouth curls into a faint, bitter smirk. "Let the flames take what's left of them."

As if on cue, two Markov men detonate the charges placed near the wall. The explosion ripple through the warehouse's rear section, consuming crates of contraband, bloodmoney, and the last desperate stronghold of an empire built on betrayal.

The blast sends fire roaring up into the rafters.

Vincenzo doesn't even flinch.

I walk towards him through the cornage, the floor littered with bodies. "You kept your word."

Vincenzo turns to me, eyes gleaming. "So did you. And now the Viscontis are under new management."

"You'll go legitimate?" I ask.

Vince gives a short laugh. "As legitimate as you and I can be."

We claspe hands, tight–not with affection, but with mutual recognition.

"I'll handle the rest of the council, " he adds. "They'll either fall in line or disappear."

"Good," I say. "Because this war was never just about revenge."

He grins. "No. This was about evolution."

From the burning warehouse behind us, smoke curls into the night sky-thick and final.

The old world was gone.

And the new oder has began.