We move quickly through the ruined hallways, both of us on high alert. The villa is silent now—eerily so.
The aftermath of war.
Shattered glass glitters beneath the dim light of dawn, reflecting the wreckage of a dynasty reduced to rubble. Bodies of fallen Lombardi men line the corridors, their loyalty repaid in blood. The heavy scent of gunpowder and death lingers in the air, clinging to the cracked marble, seeping into the foundations of a house that will never stand the same way again.
The farther we walk, the more Marco’s men come into view. The Salvatores have won.
And beyond this villa, beyond this battlefield, the destruction stretches farther than the Lombardis could have imagined.
Their empire didn’t just fall here tonight. It burned across the city.
Marco’s men took the docks before the Lombardis even realized what was happening, sweeping through the waterfront with ruthless precision. The shipments are gone—stolen, destroyed, or sunk beneath the dark waters. Their foot soldiers scattered, their captains executed, their safe houses emptied. Luca made sure of that. By the time the Lombardis had turned their focus back to the villa, the lifeblood of their empire had already been drained from the veins of Nuova Speranza.
The Salvatores don’t just own this city now.
Theyarethe city.
I can see it in the way Marco’s men stand now—not tense, not uncertain, but victorious.
The war is over.
And the Salvatores are the last ones standing.
Lorenzo and Silva meet us at the exit, their weapons still drawn, their expressions hard but relieved when they see Marco.
"Boss," Silva greets, his voice steady. "We’re clear."
Marco nods once, his posture straightening fully. "The Lombardi loyalists?"
"Some ran. Some fought back. None are left standing." Lorenzo exhales, wiping the blood from his cheek. "We lost a few, but it’s done. Vittorio?"
Marco doesn’t answer immediately.
He doesn’t have to.
Lorenzo glances at me, then at Marco, reading between the lines. A slow nod. Understanding.
Outside, the Salvatore men gather like ghosts emerging from the wreckage.
There aren’t as many as before.
We’ve lost men tonight.
But the ones left standing—they won.
The sky is softening to pale blue as dawn stretches over the battlefield. The villa—a hollowed-out corpse of a kingdom—stands in the distance, broken and lifeless, its once-grand walls scarred with bullet holes.
Marco steps forward first, his shoulders squared, his head held high.
He’s won the war.
He’s standing at the center of what remains, his men looking to him, waiting for his word. The power that has always clung to him, that has always made men bow at his feet, is absolute now.
And me?
I exhale, finally letting the last of the fear drain from my limbs.
The Lombardi threat has been eliminated, and the Salvatores have emerged victorious, but it’s clear that nothing will ever be the same.
