The rain hit the concrete like gunfire.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.
I pressed my back against the wet wall and counted my breaths. One. Two. Three. The alley smelled like rotting fish and rusted metal. Naples never cleaned its wounds. It just let them fester.
"Boss." Enzo's voice crackled in my earpiece. "You in position?"
"Yeah." I pulled the collar of my jacket higher. "Where's our guy?"
"Top floor. West corner. He's watching football and counting his dirty money."
"Typical."
I looked up. The building was five stories of cracked plaster and broken windows. Marco "The Rat" Ratti wasn't a real king. He was a joke. A minor King who ruled a few blocks of Caserta because he paid tribute to the real powers. But tonight, he was my message.
Crack.
Thunder rolled overhead. Or maybe it was a car backfiring. Either way, it covered my footsteps as I moved to the fire escape.
The ladder groaned under my weight. I climbed fast. Hand over hand. Muscle memory from two years of this life. Two years since the fire. Two years since I swore on fourteen graves that I would burn their empire down.
Third floor. Fourth.
I stopped at a window. Dim light flickered inside. Voices. Laughter.
"Enzo," I whispered. "How many?"
"Four guards inside. Two at the front door. One in the back. The Rat is alone in his office."
"Francesco?"
"At the main entrance. Waiting for your signal."
"Bianca?"
"Van is two blocks east. Chiara's with her."
"Lorenzo?"
A different voice answered. Younger. Wired. "Cameras are looped, boss. You're a ghost."
I smiled. "Good boy."
"I'm eighteen," Lorenzo groaned. "Not a boy."
"Then stop whining like one."
Enzo laughed through the earpiece. I killed the mic and pushed the window.
Sssssssss.
It slid open slow. No alarm. Lorenzo was good.
I dropped inside. The room was a storage closet. Mops. Buckets. A smell of bleach. I cracked the door and saw the hallway.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A guard walked past. Heavy boots. Pistol on his hip. He looked bored. His eyes didn't even glance at the closet door.
I waited three seconds. Then I moved.
Swoosh.
My arm wrapped around his throat before he could breathe. He tried to shout. My forearm pressed against his windpipe. Shhh. He struggled for five seconds. Then ten. Then his body went limp.
I lowered him to the floor. Not dead. Just nocked out.
I wasn't a killer. Not yet.
Thump.
I dragged him into the closet and took his pistol. Cheap. Italian-made Beretta M9. The safety was off. Amateur.
"One down," I whispered.
"Three inside," Enzo replied. "Plus the Rat."
"I know how to count."
I moved down the hallway. The walls were yellow with cigarette smoke. Pictures of football players. A calendar with a naked woman. The kind of place where men pretended to be important.
The laughter got louder. I stopped at a doorway and peeked inside.
Three men. Cards on a table. Bottles of beer. A TV showing the game. Juventus vs. Milan. One of them was big. Two hundred pounds easy. The other two were smaller. Fast-looking.
I could take them. But not quietly.
"Enzo," I whispered. "Distraction."
"On it."
Thirty seconds later, a crash echoed from the street. Glass breaking. A car alarm started screaming.
The three guards jumped up.
"What the hell?"
"Check it out. Go."
Two of them ran for the stairs. The big one stayed. He pulled out his phone.
"Boss, we got—"
I was already behind him.
The pistol grip hit the back of his skull. He dropped like a bag of cement. The phone skittered across the floor.
A tinny voice came from the speaker.I stepped on the phone.
"Two down," I said. "Moving to the office."
The stairs were narrow. Old wood that creaked under my weight. I took them two at a time. Fifth floor. A single door at the end of the hall. Painted red. Gold handle. Trying too hard to look expensive.
I didn't knock.
Boom.
My shoulder hit the door. It flew open.
Marco "The Rat" Ratti was exactly what his name said. Small. Wiry. Beady eyes that darted around the room. He was maybe forty-five, but he looked sixty. Too much wine. Too little sleep.
He was reaching for a gun in his desk drawer.
"Don't."
He froze.
I walked into the room slow. Let him see me. Black jacket. Wet hair. Scar on my left palm. He didn't recognize my face. Most people don't.
"Who are you?" His voice shook. "I have money. I have—"
"I don't want your money."
"Then what?"
I sat on the edge of his desk. Looked around. Certificates on the wall. A picture of him shaking hands with some politician. A gold watch on his wrist that probably cost more than this building.
"You pay tribute to the Wolf King," I said. "How much?"
His eyes widened. "I— I don't know what you're—"
Smack.
I backhanded him across the face. Not hard. Just enough to sting.
"Don't lie to me. It's insulting."
He touched his lip. Blood. "Fifty thousand a month."
I whistled. "That's a lot of money for a guy who runs three blocks."
He said nothing. His hand was still reaching for the drawer.
"Go ahead," I said. "Try it."
He didn't move.
"Smart rat."
I pulled a folder from my jacket. Opened it. Papers. Photographs. Bank records.
"You see this?" I pointed to a number. "This is how much you stole from the church reconstruction fund. Two hundred thousand euros. Meant for orphans. You bought a boat."
His face went pale.
"And this?" Another page. "You sold three kids to the Serpent King's traffickers. Girls. Fourteen and fifteen years old."
"That's not— I didn't—"
"Their names were Lucia, Sofia, and Elena. Elena died in a shipping container. Suffocated."
I stood up.
Marco Ratti started to beg.
I didn't feel bad for him.
"I'm going to give you a choice," I said. "You can call your guards and try to fight me. You'll lose. Or you can sign this confession and walk out that door. The police are waiting downstairs."
"The police? But you're—"
"I'm not a criminal. Not really." I put a pen on the desk. "I'm just someone who got tired of watching rats eat the scraps of my father's kingdom."
He stared at the pen. Then at me.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
I leaned close. Let him see my eyes. My father's eyes. Cold. Dark. Unforgiving.
"My name is Giovanni Moretti. And I'm going to take back everything your boss stole from my family."
Marco Ratti signed the confession.
Thirty minutes earlier.
Flashback – Salvatore Moretti's POV
The music was still playing when the door opened.
Salvatore Moretti looked up from his whiskey. The study was dark except for the fireplace. Shadows danced on the walls. Outside, the rain was starting.
"Beatrice?" he called. "Is that you?"
No answer.
He stood up. Something was wrong. His hand moved to the drawer where he kept his gun. Old habit. The cartel never really left a man.
"Marcello?"
The door swung open.
His wife walked in. Her eyes were red. Crying. But her hands were steady. And in her hands was a knife. His knife. The one he kept under his pillow.
"Bea?" He didn't understand. "What are you doing?"
"You were going to leave me."
"What?"
"Don't lie." Her voice cracked. "I saw the letter. To that woman. The Japanese one. You were going to run away with her."
Salvatore's heart stopped. "That's not— Beatrice, that letter was twenty years old. Before we even met. I was going to burn it—"
"Liar."
Behind her, a figure stepped out of the shadows.
Marcello Rossi. His vice president. His best friend for twenty-five years.
Salvatore understood.
"Ah," he said. "I see."
Rossi didn't smile. He looked almost sad. "You should have stayed in the game, Sal. Politics made you soft."
"And my wife?"
"She made a choice."
Beatrice was sobbing now. The knife shook in her hands. "He promised me. He promised I would be queen."
"There are no queens in hell, Beatrice." Salvatore looked at her one last time. Not with anger. With pity. "Only the damned."
Rossi nodded.
Beatrice screamed and swung the knife.
Salvatore didn't fight back.
He thought of his son. His daughter. Who are to small to understand what has happend.
I'm sorry, Gio , Alessia. I'm sorry I won't be there.
The blade went in.
Shhk.
The music stopped playing.
[Present]
The rain had stopped by the time I walked out of the building.
Enzo was leaning against a van. His arms were crossed. He was eating a sandwich. Of course he was eating.
"Took you long enough," he said with his mouth full.
"Had to make him sign."
"He signed?"
"Yeah."
Enzo nodded. He didn't ask what was in the confession. He knew. He always knew.
"Francesco?" I asked.
"Round the front. Cops are already inside. They're arresting the guards."
"Bianca?"
"She's with Chiara. Kid wanted to come."
"She's not a kid."
"Tell her that." He threw me a towel. "You look like a drowned cat."
I wiped my face. The rain had soaked through my jacket. Cold. But I didn't feel it. I hadn't felt cold in two years.
"Lorenzo?" I asked.
"In the van. Playing video games."
"Of course."
I walked to the van and climbed in. Lorenzo was in the back, hunched over a laptop. His fingers moved fast. Click-click-click.
"Cameras?" I asked.
"Wiped. Looped. Scrubbed. They won't even know anyone was here."
"Good."
Bianca was in the driver's seat. She looked at me in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were tired. They were always tired.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Fine."
"Liar."
I didn't answer.
Chiara sat next to her. The girl was nineteen now, but she still looked like the scared kid I met at the church. Small. Quiet. But her eyes were different. Harder.
"Did you kill him?" Chiara asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because killing him wouldn't bring them back."
She looked away. I knew what she was thinking. The fire. The children. The sound of screaming.
We all thought about it. Every day.
"Let's go home," I said.
Bianca started the engine.
Home was a warehouse on the edge of Naples. Old. Abandoned. Perfect.
We had turned it into something. Beds in one corner. A kitchen in another. Computers everywhere. Weapons hidden in the walls. It wasn't much. But it was ours.
I sat on a crate and pulled out my phone.
News alerts. The same headlines every day.
Prime Minister Rossi Announces New Anti-Corruption Measures.
Poll Numbers Show Strong Support for Rossi Administration.
Rossi Family Donates to Children's Hospital.
I wanted to throw the phone against the wall.
Instead, I looked at the picture on my lock screen. Alessia. Smiling in front of a hospital in Seoul. She looked happy. Healthy. Safe.
I hadn't seen her in three years.
"Boss."
Enzo sat next to me. He wasn't eating for once.
"You did good tonight."
"I know."
"The Rat's confession goes to the journalist tomorrow?"
"Elena. Yeah."
"That's three minor kings this month. People are starting to talk."
"Let them talk."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know we can't keep doing this forever, right? Taking down small fish. Eventually, we have to go after the sharks."
"I know."
"When?"
I looked at the ceiling. The warehouse was dark. Rain dripped through a hole in the roof. Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Soon."
My phone buzzed.
A message. Encrypted. From a number I didn't recognize.
I opened it.
The priest knows something about the church fire. Something hidden. Come alone. – J
I stared at the screen.
"Who is it?" Enzo asked.
"An old friend of my father's."
"You have those?"
"Apparently."
I stood up. "I need to go."
"Now? It's two in the morning."
"Now."
Enzo didn't argue. He never argued when I had that look. He just nodded and handed me my jacket.
"Be careful."
"I'm always careful."
"You're really not."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
The church was gone now. Just a skeleton. Black beams against grey sky. The smell of smoke still hung in the air, even after two years.
I walked through the rubble. Broken glass crunched under my boots. Crunch. Crunch.
Father Antonio was waiting by the altar. Or what was left of it. He was old. Sixty-eight. His face was weathered. His hands shook. The fire had damaged his lungs. He couldn't speak loud anymore.
"Giovanni." His voice was a whisper. "You came."
"You said it was important."
He nodded. "Follow me."
He led me to the basement. The stairs were gone, so we climbed down a ladder. The walls were black with soot. The air was thick. I coughed.
"Here."
He pointed to a section of the wall. It looked normal. Just brick and mortar. But he pushed a loose stone, and a hidden door swung open.
Creak.
Behind it was a room. Small. Cold. And filled with boxes.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Your father's insurance."
I opened a box. Papers. Ledgers. Photographs. Names I recognized. Names I didn't. Bank accounts. Offshore holdings. Politicians. Judges. Police chiefs.
And at the bottom of the box, a letter.
To my son, Giovanni.
My hands shook.
If you're reading this, I'm gone. Don't avenge me, son. Live. Love. Break the chain. The Moretti name has seen enough blood.
I read it three times.
Then I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket.
"There's more," Father Antonio said. "Not just paper. Weapons. Money. Hidden across Italy. Your father planned for this."
"How do you know?"
"Because he told me. The night before he died."
I looked at the old man. His eyes were wet.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Because you weren't ready." He touched my arm. "You are now."
I stared at the boxes. Years of evidence. Years of secrets. Enough to bring down his empire.
But not enough to bring back the dead.
"Thank you, Father."
"Don't thank me." He smiled. It was a sad smile. "Thank your father. He loved you more than you'll ever know."
I left the church as the sun started to rise.
The rain was gone. For now.
I pulled out my phone and sent a message to the crew.
We have what we need. Meeting tomorrow. Bring everyone.
Then I looked at the picture of Alessia again.
Soon, I thought. Soon we'll be together again.
But first, I had to end him.