Loving you slowly

The heavy scent of cigar smoke curled through the grand study like a lazy ghost, clinging to the dark velvet curtains and the aged leather chairs. A storm brewed outside the Moretti estate, but the real storm was gathering behind the closed doors of the Don's private quarters.

Don Alessandro sat at the head of the long oak table, his fingers stained with ash, a glass of blood-red Chianti swirling lazily in his hand. The dim chandelier above cast fractured shadows over his weathered face, making the deep scar across his jaw look like a fresh wound.

"Figli di puttana," Alessandro muttered, voice like gravel. "They wanna play fuckin' games? I'll show 'em a fuckin' game."

Across from him sat his underboss, Dario his first son and heir. Young, but dangerous. Dangerous because he was cold. Ice in the veins, not fire. That's what made him lethal.

Dario leaned back in his chair, hands steepled under his chin. He hadn't touched his drink. He was never one for indulgence. His mind was always working-calculating, dissecting, storing grudges like trophies.

"They're testing us," he said quietly, his voice smooth as silk but edged with steel. "Trying to bait us into a sloppy retaliation."

"Sloppy retaliation is the fuckin' point," grunted the consigliere, Vito Mancini, an older man with silver hair and dead eyes. "We hit them fast, we hit them hard. You leave dogs barking too long, they start thinking they're wolves."

Dario's lips twitched. "Wolves bite. Barking mutts just shit on the floor and wait to be put down."

The Don chuckled, deep and dark. "You've always had a poetic way with violence, figlio mio."

Just then, the door burst open without a knock. It creaked on its ancient hinges, and in stepped Rocco, the capo from their Eastside crew. His face was pale, rainwater dripping from his soaked suit jacket. The urgency in his eyes sent a ripple of tension through the room.

Alessandro sat up straighter. "Parla. Speak."

Rocco didn't waste time. "It's done. The Bastones hit our warehouse on 43rd. Two of our guys-Luca and Sandro-they're fuckin' dead. Burned the place down. Product's gone. Everything."

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Then came the sound of glass shattering as Dario hurled his untouched drink across the room. It hit the wall with a violent crash, splintering into wine-stained shards.

"Cazzo!" he snarled, rising to his feet. "Those sons of bitches just declared open war."

Vito stood slowly, folding his hands behind his back. "They've got balls, I'll give 'em that. But balls don't stop bullets."

"Fucking cowards," Alessandro spat, slamming his fist on the table. "That warehouse was supposed to be under lockdown. How the fuck did they get in?"

Rocco swallowed hard. "We had two men outside. Must've been inside help. Cameras were cut. Clean, professional."

"Inside help?" Dario repeated, eyes narrowing. "You saying we've got a rat?"

Rocco hesitated. "Possibly."

Dario stalked across the room, grabbed a chair, and hurled it at the wall. Wood splintered with a deafening crack.

"Find out who the fuck sold us out," he growled. "And when you do, I want his fuckin' tongue nailed to my office door."

"Consider it done," Rocco nodded.

"Where's Bastone holed up now?" Alessandro asked, calmer now, but his voice cold with vengeance.

"Word is he's laying low in that casino front in Jersey. Surrounded by security," Vito answered. "He's expecting us to retaliate."

Dario cracked his knuckles. "Then we don't give him what he expects."

"What do you have in mind?" the Don asked, his tone intrigued.

Dario's gaze turned dark. "We hit something close to him. Something personal."

Vito frowned. "You're suggesting we go after his blood?"

"No," Dario said, shaking his head. "That's what he did. I'm thinking bigger. We don't just kill his men-we dismantle his fuckin' empire. Brick by fuckin' brick. One piece at a time."

Alessandro looked at his son with something close to pride-and maybe a little fear.

"Go on," he urged.

"We start with the docks. Cut off his shipments. Then the clubs. Scare off the suppliers. Next, the banks. Hit 'em with fake audits. Freeze his assets with our contacts in the city council. We ruin him slowly."

"You wanna bleed him dry," Vito muttered. "Slow death."

"It's not just revenge," Dario said, voice like frost. "It's a message. You fuck with the Morettis, we don't just end you. We erase you."

A beat of silence followed before Alessandro stood, the weight of years of power etched into every movement.

"Bene," he said finally. "Make it happen. And Dario?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure the Bastone bastard lives just long enough to regret breathing."

Dario smirked. "I'll carve regret into his fuckin' spine."

"Rocco," Alessandro turned to the capo. "Get your crew ready. We start with the docks tomorrow night. Tell Marco to bring the silencers."

Rocco nodded once and turned to leave, already dialing on his burner phone.

When the door shut behind him, Vito turned back toward the Don.

"There will be blood."

Alessandro raised his glass of wine-poured a new one, of course.

"There always is."

Outside, thunder cracked.

Inside, war was already in motion.