Chapter 7 - Smokes and Shadows

Elena blinked, snapping out of the strange trance just as Lorenzo rolled off her and pulled her to her feet in one swift motion.

The chaos around them resumed in full force—bullets whizzing, people screaming, the unmistakable scent of gunpowder and blood thick in the air.

“Stay close to Isabella!” Lorenzo barked, his hand briefly brushing Elena’s back before he dashed off, disappearing into the smoke like a shadow.

Elena staggered slightly but regained her footing. Her eyes scanned the club—bodies strewn across the marbled floor, flashes of gunfire illuminating the night in bursts. The once-exclusive grounds of The Black Orchid now looked like a war zone.

“Elena! Damn it, you can’t zone out like that” Isabella hissed, grabbing Elena’s arm and pulling her behind a toppled table. “You want to die on your first day in the family?”

“I’m fine,” Elena breathed, though her heart was hammering like a drum in her chest. “What now?”

Before Isabella could respond, a flare lit up the sky. A signal. Matteo’s voice cut through the noise via a radio, “East side’s secure. We’ve lost five men. Let’s push them outside to avoid further damage.”

Isabella grabbed a second pistol and handed it to Elena. “Just in case. Point and pull this trigger. Don’t hesitate.”

Elena hesitated.

“Don’t be stupid,” Isabella added, eyes scanning the shadows. “It’s either you or them.”

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the west wing of the building—glass rained from above as screams echoed from inside. Elena ducked instinctively, arms over her head, coughing through the smoke as flames began to rise in the distance.

From the haze, Lorenzo emerged again—bloodied, breathing hard, his shirt torn and stained, a knife in one hand, pistol in the other. He looked like a death incarnate.

“They are retreating,” he shouted. “Matteo’s cleared the back. We continue to push them outside.”

A man lunged at him from behind, but Lorenzo’s quick reflexes kicked in. He turned quickly and buried his knife into the attacker’s side, and shoved him to the ground.

Elena couldn’t look away. There was something terrifyingly graceful about him in combat. Efficient. Deadly. Beautiful, in a monstrous way.

She stepped forward instinctively, even as Isabella yelled behind her.

“Elena—”

Another assailant appeared, and without thinking, Elena raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

A single shot. Straight through his shoulder.

He dropped his weapon with a scream and collapsed.

The silence that followed felt louder than the gunfire.

Lorenzo looked at her, surprised—his dark eyes locked on hers, unreadable, searching.

“Oh damn, you’ve got some fire in you,” Isabella said with a grin, stepping over a body to get to Elena. “I just showed you how to use a gun minutes ago, and now look at you—your first kill.”

Elena froze.

For a split second, she’d forgotten herself. Forgot she wasn’t supposed to be this skilled. She wasn’t supposed to react like a trained officer. But in that moment, instinct had taken over—and now Lorenzo was watching her like a hawk.

Her fingers twitched around the weapon.

Then, she quickly dropped the gun like it burned, letting her hands tremble as she forced a shaky breath.

“You—you said to point and pull the trigger,” she said, her voice unsteady, eyes wide.

Isabella laughed and clapped her hands on her back. “And you did it perfectly. Welcome to the family, chica.”

But Elena could still feel Lorenzo’s gaze on her—too quiet, too still.

And she knew: she’d just stepped a little too far out of the role she was supposed to play.

Lorenzo walked away from them without a word as he continued to fire shots.

The gunfire had thinned. Shouts from the opposing side turned into panicked cries, and then—silence, except for the distant crackle of flames licking the west wing of the club.

Matteo’s voice echoed through the comm again, breathless but triumphant. “They’re running away. The bastard leading them just took a shot to the gut. They’re running!”

Elena moved towards the door and peeked outside. Sure enough, shadowy figures retreated into the alleyways, dragging their wounded, leaving behind bodies and dropped weapons.

The club, once filled with the chaos of battle, now held only smoke, debris, and blood.

Lorenzo stood tall, chest heaving, and lowered his gun.

“Do not follow,” he commanded his men. “Let them crawl away and remember who owns Madrid.”

A roar of agreement came from the DeLuca family members scattered across the ground. Some of them began rounding up the injured, while others started tending to their wounded.

Isabella exhaled beside Elena, brushing soot from her face. “Well, that was a welcome party.”

Elena didn’t speak. Her eyes followed the lifeless bodies being dragged across the bloodied pavement, the metallic scent of death heavy in the air. Each one had belonged to someone—a son, a brother, a father. Somewhere, their wives, their parents, their children would be waiting for them to return home tonight.

But they never would.

Just like her father never did.

Lorenzo strode back toward them, blood streaking across his jaw and arms.

He looked down at Elena, and for a long second, they just stared at each other.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, slowly.

“You survived your first night.” Then, as if it were nothing, he turned and gave an order to Matteo to secure the perimeter and call in the cleaners.

Elena glanced at the bodies being dragged off the property, the blood on her hands.

She was in. No turning back now.