30. Blood in the Water
Blood in the Water
Dante
Two weeks.
Two weeks since Nichole disappeared.
Two weeks since she slipped through my fingers.
And in that time? Nothing. No trace of her. No whispers, no sightings, no signs of where the hell LaCampanella is keeping her.
And I’ve looked.
I’ve had men tailing every possible connection she could have. I’ve even been watching Valentina, waiting for her to slip up—to lead me straight to Nichole’s hiding place.
But she hasn’t.
Because Nichole isn’t reaching out. She’s not slipping messages. Not sending signals.
It’s like she’s vanished into thin air.
And Antonio?
He’s ready to tear this entire city apart.
I’ve never seen my father like this—not this unhinged, not this enraged. The estate is tense, the men walking on eggshells, knowing that one wrong move could send him over the edge.
And that?
That could work in my favor.
Because right now, he’s focused on finding Nichole.
And not on me.
I haven’t forgotten the way he looked at me the night she left. The way he questioned me.
He still doesn’t have proof.
But he suspects.
And if he ever finds that proof?
I’ll have a much bigger problem than Damian LaCampanella.
I watch the cigarette burn between my fingers, the ember glowing against the night air, the smoke curling in lazy patterns before disappearing into the cold.
The city is restless tonight.
I can feel it in the way the streets hum with tension, the way my men move sharper, more aggressive, like wolves circling prey they can’t quite catch. Two weeks of searching. Two weeks of nothing. And in that time, we’ve painted the streets red.
The war with LaCampanella has officially begun, and bodies are dropping on both sides. Every night, another ambush, another retaliation, another name added to the list of the dead.
But still—no progress.
No Nichole.
LaCampanella has been careful—too careful. I expected him to put up a fight, but this? This silence? It’s deliberate. Calculated.
And it’s pissing me off.
The sound of footsteps crunching against the pavement pulls me from my thoughts. One of my men approaches, his face shadowed under the streetlight. “Word came in,” he mutters. “Another shipment hit. LaCampanella’s men. Five of ours dead.”
I inhale deeply, exhaling the smoke through my nose before flicking the cigarette onto the ground, crushing it under my boot.
Five more.
That makes it thirty-two.
Thirty-two men lost to a war that should have ended by now.
Antonio is going to lose his goddamn mind.
I tilt my head, cracking my neck as I roll my shoulders. The weight of it all settles in, but instead of dragging me down, it fuels me.
Enough of this waiting. Enough of this silent, creeping war.
“LaCampanella wants to play ghost?” I mutter, turning to the group of men waiting by the cars. “Fine. Let’s smoke him out.”
I nod toward the line of blacked-out vehicles.
“Move.”
We slide into the cars, the engines rumbling low as we pull onto the street. I don’t need to tell my men what’s about to happen. They already know.
Tonight, we’re making noise.
The first shot cracks through the night, shattering glass, punching through metal.
I drop behind the open car door as bullets spray across the alley, sparks flying as lead ricochets off steel.
LaCampanella’s men were waiting.
Good.
I signal to my men, and within seconds, we return fire, the air thick with gunpowder and chaos. Shadows dart between the parked cars, but I don’t hesitate. I spot movement, fire.
One down.
A second later, another figure lunges from behind a dumpster, raising his weapon.
Too slow.
I put two in his chest, watching him collapse against the brick wall, blood smearing the surface as he slides down.
My pulse is steady, my breathing even.
This isn’t rage.
This is business.
A car screeches around the corner, the black SUV swerving as the back windows roll down, the long barrel of a semi-automatic rifle sliding into view.
“Cover!” I bark, ducking as another hail of bullets explodes through the air.
One of my men isn’t fast enough.
The bullets rip through his body, and he drops with a strangled gurgle, blood pooling beneath him.
Fucking hell.
The gunfire slows, just for a second—just long enough.
I rise from behind the car, take one precise shot.
The bullet shatters the windshield, punching through the driver’s skull. The SUV jerks violently, tires skidding before it slams into a streetlight. Smoke hisses from the hood.
“Move in!”
We advance, cutting down the remaining stragglers. I catch sight of one man stumbling from the wreckage, bleeding, desperate. He lifts his gun, his hand shaking.
One of my men shoots him in the gut, and he crumples to his knees.
I walk toward him, slow, deliberate. He looks up, his face twisted in pain. I crouch down, gripping his jaw just hard enough to make him feel it.
“Where’s LaCampanella?” I ask, my voice calm.
His breath rattles. “Go to hell.”
I smile. “You first.”
I pull the trigger.
His body slumps.
I straighten, turning to my men. “Burn the cars,” I order. “Leave the bodies.”
Let the city see. Let them know.
As the flames start licking up the wreckage, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, pressing it to my ear.
Antonio doesn’t wait for me to speak.
“This is taking too long,” he growls. “I want her back.”
I glance at the bodies on the pavement, the fire casting flickering shadows over the bloodstained concrete.
I smirk.
“It won’t be long now.”