The city had changed its rhythm.The gunfire that once ruled Southbridge had been replaced by quieter weapons — contracts, lobbyists, data leaks. Violence was still there, only more refined. It wore perfume now. It spoke in polite tones, smiled through glass towers.And at the center of that new order was Lila Moretti — the woman who had turned ashes into empire.The headquarters of her new company, Veridian Holdings, rose above the skyline like a crown of steel and light. To the public, it was a real estate conglomerate. To those who understood better, it was the perfect front: a network of shell companies laundering billions through construction, logistics, and tech startups.It was the same game Dario and Enzo had played, but Lila was rewriting the rules — shifting the battlefield from the alley to the boardroom.Inside her office, the air hummed with quiet power. A wall of digital maps displayed the city in glowing veins of light — traffic routes, political districts, bank movemen

The city had forgotten his name.And that was his greatest advantage.Enzo Marchese had spent three years buried under aliases, moving through the gutters of his own former kingdom. He’d watched from the dark corners while Lila’s empire grew — glittering, polished, ruthless — built on the bones of every rival who’d dared stand against her.He’d watched her triumph.He’d watched her burn bridges, then rebuild them in gold.And he’d waited.Now, the cracks had begun to show.The night was sharp and cold in Old Venera, the district where no one asked questions and every silence was worth money. A dim warehouse stood at the edge of the harbor, flickering lights and the smell of salt and oil thick in the air.Inside, a dozen men gathered around a map — routes, shipments, names — all laid out like a war plan.Enzo stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, scars along his hands catching the light. His voice was calm but deliberate, each word placed like a move on a chessboard.“Veri

The rain hadn’t stopped since dawn. It fell in steady, silver streaks across the cracked windows of the old conference hall, the kind of rain that drowned sound and thought alike. Mara stepped through the warped glass doors and into the hollow echo of what used to be power.The room was vast and cold. Rows of empty chairs faced a long glass table that still bore the stains of forgotten cigars and spilled whiskey. Somewhere above, a light fixture flickered weakly, buzzing like a trapped insect. Every few seconds, a drop of water fell from the ceiling and splashed on the marble floor.Mara walked down the center aisle, her boots crunching over broken glass. The pistol at her hip was heavy, but not heavier than what she carried inside her. Her jacket was soaked through. Her pulse was steady.At the far end of the room, Lila sat waiting — calm, poised, almost regal despite the bruise on her cheek. A black coat draped across her shoulders. She didn’t stand when Mara approached.“I didn’t t

The first rule of disappearing was simple: burn everything you once called yours.Mara Vale had done exactly that.Her old apartment was gone, her accounts wiped, her face buried beneath layers of forged identities and street whispers. Even the people who once swore loyalty now looked past her in the alleys — afraid to be seen with a ghost.Three nights had passed since the ambush — three nights of gunfire echoing across Southbridge like thunder that refused to fade. The streets were coated in soot, smoke, and silence. Whole blocks burned, and nobody claimed responsibility. That’s how you knew Enzo was behind it. He made erasure look clean.Mara crouched in a half-collapsed warehouse near the river, stripping the magazine from her gun with trembling hands. The cut on her shoulder had reopened — crimson blooming through her shirt — but she worked through it, her face calm, almost detached. Pain had become her clock.At the far end of the room, a figure entered — Rix, one of Dario’s old

The Narrows smelled like old rain and secrets.Every alley had its ghosts, every face a story it wished to forget.Mara moved through the market crowd with her hood up, pulse steady despite the chaos. Steam hissed from the street vents, wrapping her in the city’s breath — sour, alive, dangerous.Jonah followed half a step behind, his hand resting near the concealed pistol under his coat. “You sure this contact’s clean?” he muttered.“As clean as anyone gets in the Narrows,” Mara said. “Which means not at all.”They turned down a side street where rusted signs creaked in the wind. The buildings leaned toward each other like conspirators. Ahead, a neon sign flickered: HOLLOW BAR – ENTRY RESTRICTED.Inside, the air was dense with smoke and whispered deals. Low lights, broken furniture, faces half-swallowed by shadow.A woman in a raincoat waited at the far booth. Her hair was damp, eyes sharp, movements too deliberate for an ordinary patron.“Lila,” Mara said quietly as she approached.T