Bloodlines and blazing guns

The leather chair groaned under Alessandro’s weight as he leaned back, fingers steepled against his lips. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind him showcased the sprawling Milan skyline, but his gaze remained fixed on the glass of whiskey on his desk—untouched. A storm was brewing, not outside, but within his world. The kind of storm that didn’t pass without blood being spilled.

A sharp knock at the door sliced through the silence.

Before Alessandro could respond, the door swung open, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

“Alessandro.”

Luca’s voice was a low growl, his tall frame shadowing the entrance. Dressed in a dark shirt and slacks, his hair disheveled — a rare sight — he looked like a man on the verge of losing control.

Alessandro arched a brow. “Breaking my door won’t fix the problem, Luca.”

But Luca didn’t bother with a witty retort. His jaw was clenched so tight it could crack stone.

“The warehouse in St. Petersburg.” Luca paused, running a hand through his hair. “It’s gone.”

The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade about to drop.

Alessandro’s expression remained impassive, but his grip on the whiskey glass tightened. “Define ‘gone.’”

“Blown to hell.” Luca’s voice held a lethal calm, his Italian accent sharper when he was angry. “There’s nothing left. Just rubble and smoke. The shipment’s gone too — everything.”

The silence that followed was deafening. That warehouse didn’t just hold weapons — it held leverage, millions of dollars in untraceable money, and ties to the Russian mafia that Alessandro had worked years to secure. This wasn’t a random attack. It was a declaration of war.

Alessandro set the whiskey down, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.

“Who did it?”

Luca’s mouth twisted. “We’re still digging, but the Volkovs are the prime suspects.”

The Volkovs. Of course. That snake Nikolai had always had an insatiable hunger for power, but this? This was bold, even for him.

But before Alessandro could respond, the office door creaked open again.

“Zio (uncle) Alessandro!”

Two voices — identical, high-pitched, and dripping with mischief — rang out.

Alessandro didn’t have to look up. He already knew who it was.

The twins.

Matteo and Marco. His younger cousins — fifteen years old, chaotic as hell, and a constant thorn in his side.

Dressed in matching black hoodies and ripped jeans, their dark curls and mischievous grins were a mirror of each other.

“Did we just hear something about an explosion?” Matteo smirked, plopping onto Alessandro’s leather couch.

Marco flopped beside him, swinging his legs like an overgrown child. “Please tell me you’re about to go full Godfather on someone.”

Luca pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why the hell are you two here?”

Matteo grinned. “We missed Zio (uncle) Alessandro, obviously.”

Marco leaned forward. “And we heard you yelling. Thought someone was dying.”

“Not yet,” Alessandro muttered, his patience hanging by a thread.

The twins burst into laughter.

Luca shot them a deadly glare. “This isn’t a game. People died today.”

That sobered them — for all of five seconds.

“Fine, fine,” Matteo said, holding up his hands. “So, what’s the plan, boss?”

Alessandro stood, his towering frame commanding the room’s attention. He straightened his black suit jacket, his expression hard as steel.

“I’m going to Germany,” he said, his voice a quiet storm. “The Volkovs are pushing boundaries, and I want to know why.”

Luca stiffened. “Germany?”

Alessandro met his friend’s gaze. “Yes. While I’m gone, you’ll handle things here.”

The twins gasped in unison.

“Luca’s in charge?” Marco grinned. “That’s like letting a wolf guard the sheep.”

Matteo snickered. “Hope the empire’s still standing when you get back.”

Luca shot them a murderous look. “Say one more word and I’ll tie you both to the docks.”

The twins exchanged a glance, their grins only widening.

Alessandro, however, ignored their antics. His mind was already racing ahead — to Nikolai, to the Volkovs, to the smoldering ruins of his warehouse.

“Luca,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “You know what to do. Tighten security at every warehouse — Milan, New York, Moscow. No one gets in or out without our knowledge.”

Luca nodded. “Consider it done.”

“And the Volkovs?”

Alessandro’s jaw ticked. “We don’t move yet. Not until I have proof.”

The twins groaned.

“Boring,” Matteo muttered.

Marco added, “Can we at least blow something up for fun?”

Luca took a step toward them, but Alessandro lifted a hand. “Leave them.”

The twins beamed like they’d won a prize.

But beneath Luca’s irritation was something deeper — a loyalty forged in blood and years of hardship.

Alessandro didn’t miss it.

He remembered the first time he met Luca. They were just boys — Alessandro, the heir to the Moretti empire, and Luca, the orphaned son of a family loyal to the Morettis. When Luca’s father was killed in a crossfire, Alessandro’s father took him in — not as charity, but as a debt owed to a man who had died protecting the family name.

Luca grew up in the Moretti household, but he was never a shadow to Alessandro. He was a brother in everything but blood. They trained together — fists against flesh, knives against bone. Alessandro taught Luca how to wield a gun; Luca taught Alessandro how to throw a punch that could break a man’s jaw.

They were a storm — dangerous apart, lethal together.

And now, years later, with Alessandro at the helm of the Moretti empire, Luca stood beside him — not as a soldier, but as his right hand. His most trusted confidant.

Alessandro’s voice softened, if only for a fraction of a second. “I trust you, Luca.”

Luca’s jaw flexed, the storm in his eyes easing just a little. “I won’t let anything happen while you’re gone.”

Alessandro nodded. “I know.”

The twins, however, were oblivious to the weight of the moment.

“Can we come to Germany too?” Marco asked.

Matteo added, “We’ll behave. Probably.”

Alessandro’s patience snapped. “No.”

The twins groaned.

“Luca,” Alessandro said, turning back to his friend. “Make sure these two don’t destroy anything.”

Luca smirked. “Can’t make any promises.”

As Alessandro grabbed his phone, already dialing a number, his mind raced ahead — to Nikolai, to the Volkovs, to the smoldering ruins of his warehouse.

“Prepare the jet. I leave for Berlin tonight.”

When he hung up, he met Luca’s gaze one last time. “Hold down the fort, brother.”

Luca’s smirk faded into something serious. “Always.”

The twins waved innocently.

Alessandro didn’t smile. He didn’t have time for smiles.

As he strode toward the door, his mind was a storm of fire and fury. Someone had just declared war on the Moretti family — and Alessandro never lost a war.

The Volkovs had made their move.

Now, it was Alessandro’s turn.