Carrick Gale didn’t sleep anymore.He sat in the estate’s underground war room, the dim light of the overhead bulbs casting jagged shadows across his face. The map table before him was marked with fresh ink...blue for neutral territories, black for allies, and red for enemies. The red bled across the city like an open wound.Victor stood near the door, arms folded, watching him. “You haven’t said a word in hours.”Carrick’s fingers traced a circle around a warehouse in the South District. “She’s baiting us.”Victor stepped closer. “You think Alessia wants us to strike?”“She wants me to overreach. She’s picked at the edges...cut off our money, turned the Kovac crew against us. That was precise. Surgical.” He looked up, eyes bloodshot but burning. “She’s not lashing out. She’s hunting.”Victor let out a slow breath. “So what do we do?”Carrick pushed the map aside. “We stop reacting. Start moving like predators, not prey.”Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Marco entered, face pal

The storm rolled over the city like a judgment long overdue, thunder rumbling low in the belly of the clouds. Rain spat against the windows of the Gale estate, but inside, the air was dry and charged.Carrick stood at the far end of the war room, his back to the door, eyes fixed on a map of the city pocked with red pins. Each one was a wound. A betrayal. A ghost.Victor stepped in without knocking. “We lost another shipment.”Carrick didn’t turn. “Where?”“Dock 17. South bay. Alessia’s people torched it. Again.”A long silence. Carrick’s hand clenched the edge of the table. “How many?”“Five men dead. Two missing. One of them was Piero.”Carrick finally turned. His eyes were darker than the storm outside. “Piero was loyal.”Victor nodded grimly. “He went down fighting.”“Good,” Carrick said softly, then added after a pause, “He deserves to be remembered for that. Not for dying under my command.”Victor watched him carefully. “You can’t keep bleeding people for territory, Carrick. She’

The storm had no mercy. Rain lashed against the windows of the Gale estate, like ghostly fingers tapping out a warning on the glass. Thunder rolled over the city in slow, growling waves, the sound echoing through the marble halls and empty corridors of Carrick's stronghold. Inside the war room, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Carrick stood alone before the table, the city map soaked in red ink and wine stains, cigarette smoke curling above his head. His fingers traced the perimeter of West District again and again, like he could feel the noose tightening around his empire. Victor entered without knocking, his coat dripping wet, his eyes grim. "She hit the seventh shipment," he said. Carrick didn’t flinch. "Losses?" "Six dead. Two drivers, four guards. And..." Victor hesitated. "She left a message. Burned it into the asphalt." Carrick turned slowly. "What did it say?" Victor’s voice was flat. "An eye for an eye. And your city will go blind." Silence hung like

The rain fell in sheets over the East District, washing the alleys in a silver gleam that did little to cleanse the rot beneath. Streetlights flickered. Neon signs sputtered. And deep within the skeletal remains of an abandoned textile mill, war was being planned.Alessia De Luca stood at the head of a long, rust-streaked table, the old iron doors shut tight behind her. A map of the city was spread wide across the surface, marked with crimson pins and cigarette burns. Around her sat the core of her rebellion: Lucien, cool and expressionless; Nadya, the Russian smuggler who’d turned against Carrick after he torched her safehouse; and Salvi, his white beard stained with ash and betrayal."We hit the Verdant depot next," Alessia said, pointing to the warehouse near the riverfront. "Carrick’s moving weapons there under a new alias. He thinks I don’t know."Lucien leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "You plan to strike openly?"Alessia nodded. "Hard and fast. We torch the wea

The room was dark, save for the flicker of candlelight on polished mahogany. Rain tapped softly against the windows, like the city itself was whispering warnings into the night. Carrick Gale stood at the head of the long table, fingers splayed across a map of the city. His jaw was clenched. His eyes, bloodshot. The war was closing in on him.Victor entered, shaking off his coat. "They're pulling back. Three crews in East End defected to Alessia's side tonight."Carrick didn’t lift his gaze. "Names.""Marino, Castro, and Devlin.""Devlin?" Carrick's voice sharpened. "He was at my table three nights ago. He drank my wine."Victor gave a solemn nod. "That was before Lucien paid him a visit."Carrick stepped back, exhaling slowly. "Lucien’s good. Better than I expected.""And Alessia's not just reacting. She’s orchestrating. Every move feels calculated. She’s not trying to take your empire in one blow...she’s slicing it apart, one vein at a time."Carrick turned away from the table, pacin