VEILS OF VENGEANCE

Luca’s POV

The docks erupted into pandemonium—gunfire cracking like thunder, fog swirling like ghosts in the crossfire. Viktor’s men surged from the shadows, their silhouettes monstrous under the flickering lamps. Chen was down, clutching her shoulder, blood soaking her vest, but she fired back one-handed, barking orders to her scattered team. Dante hauled me behind a rusted container, his body a human shield as bullets pinged off metal. Dmitri covered our flank, his shots precise despite the tremors in his hands.

But all of that faded when I saw Sofia.

My sister—my sweet, studious Sofia, who I’d shielded from every shadow in our lives—stepped out from behind a stack of crates, a compact pistol gripped in her steady hands. Her white coat from the hospital was gone, replaced by dark jeans and a leather jacket that screamed deliberate. Her eyes, usually soft with concern, burned with a fury I’d never seen. She aimed straight at Viktor, who laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that cut through the chaos.

“Sofia?” I choked out, stepping forward despite Dante’s iron grip on my arm. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

She didn’t look at me. “Stay back, Luca. This ends tonight.”

Viktor tilted his head, amusement curling his lips. “Ah, the little doctor. Come to play hero? Or settle old scores?”

Old scores? My mind reeled. Sofia had always been the innocent one—the medical resident grinding through shifts at Mount Sinai, oblivious to my criminal entanglements. Or so I’d thought. But the way she held that gun, finger steady on the trigger, told a different story. This wasn’t her first time.

Dante yanked me lower as a bullet whizzed past. “Luca, focus! Who’s she with?”

Before I could answer, a new figure emerged from the fog beside Sofia—a tall, lithe man in his early thirties, with sharp Mediterranean features, a tailored coat over tactical gear, and a smirk that screamed entitlement. He carried a suppressed SMG casually, like an accessory. His eyes locked on Dante, dark and predatory.

“Enzo De Luca,” Dante snarled under his breath. “The Sicilian heir. What the hell is he doing here?”

Enzo De Luca—the rival mafia heir from Palermo, whispered about in Vitale circles as a wildcard. He’d been expanding into New York, clashing with both Italian and Russian families, his methods ruthless and innovative. Tech-savvy, charming, deadly. And now, apparently, allied with my sister?

“Sofia Marino,” Enzo drawled in accented English, his voice smooth as silk. “My partner in this little vendetta. Viktor, you shouldn’t have touched her brother.”

Partner? The word hit like a gut punch. Sofia finally glanced at me, her expression fracturing for a split second—regret, maybe love—before hardening again. “Luca… I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Flashbacks assaulted me: Sofia’s late nights “studying,” the unexplained bruises she’d dismissed as hospital accidents, the mysterious “scholarships” that paid her tuition after our parents died. I’d thought it was luck, or my laundering money filtering through. But no. She’d been in the game all along.

“Tell me,” I demanded, voice raw over the gunfire. Dante fired two shots, dropping one of Viktor’s men, buying us a moment.

Sofia’s eyes flicked to Enzo, who nodded subtly. “After Mom and Dad’s accident—the one the Bratva caused to silence Dad’s whistleblowing on their early operations—I didn’t just grieve. I investigated. Found out Viktor ordered the hit. I couldn’t let it go.” She squeezed off a round, clipping Viktor’s shoulder. He roared, diving for cover. “Enzo approached me two years ago. His family lost territory to the Russians in Europe. We allied—me providing intel from hospital records on their wounded, him giving me training, resources. We’ve been dismantling Viktor’s edges quietly. When you disappeared, I knew it was him. Enzo helped track you here.”

Enzo grinned at Dante. “Vitale. You’ve been sloppy, letting this beauty fall into your lap. But Sofia’s mine now—in business and more. Hand over the accountant, or we burn you all.”

Dante’s laugh was cold. “Over my corpse, De Luca.”

The shootout intensified—Chen’s team rallying, Dmitri shouting warnings. Judge Morrison bolted, briefcase abandoned, but Enzo’s hidden men—Sicilian enforcers—flanked us, turning the docks into a three-way war. Viktor bellowed orders in Russian, his wound slowing him but not stopping.

In the madness, Dante dragged me into a narrow alley between containers, our backs against cold steel. “We need to regroup,” he panted, reloading. But his eyes on me were feral, the adrenaline morphing into something darker, hungrier.

“Not now,” I gasped, but my body betrayed me—cock hardening at his proximity, the danger amplifying every touch.

“Yes, now.” He shoved me against the wall, mouth claiming mine in a savage kiss. Teeth clashed, tongues fought; his hand plunged into my pants, gripping my erection with bruising force. “You’re mine, Luca. Not hers. Not his.”

Bullets whined nearby, shouts echoing, but the risk only fueled the fire. He spun me, yanking my pants to my knees, exposing me to the foggy air. “Spread,” he commanded, and I did, bracing against the container.

He dropped to his knees behind me, spreading my cheeks and diving in—tongue thrusting deep, rimming me with aggressive swirls, teeth grazing sensitive skin. I bit my fist to stifle moans, but he slapped my ass hard, the crack echoing dangerously. “Let them hear,” he growled, inserting two fingers slick with his spit, scissoring roughly while sucking marks into my thigh.

“Fuck… Dante…” I bucked back, grinding against his face.

He stood, freeing his massive cock—throbbing, veined—and rammed into me without mercy. The stretch burned, exquisite pain blending with pleasure as he pounded, one hand over my mouth, the other jerking me off in sync. “Imagine Enzo watching,” he whispered filthily. “Jealous he can’t have this tight hole. Or Sofia, seeing how I own you.”

The taboo words pushed me over—I came in ropes across the wall, body convulsing. He thrust deeper, biting my neck as he exploded inside, hot pulses claiming me utterly.

We slumped, breathless, but reality crashed back with a fresh volley of shots. Dante zipped up, handing me a spare gun. “Stay alive. We end this.”

We burst out, rejoining the fray. Dmitri had Viktor pinned; Chen arrested Morrison mid-escape. But Enzo grabbed Sofia, pulling her toward a speedboat. “This isn’t over, Vitale!” he yelled. “The heir claims his prize!”

Sofia resisted, eyes meeting mine one last time—pleading? Or plotting?

As they sped into the fog, a new explosion rocked the docks—charges detonating containers, flames licking the sky. Viktor broke free, vanishing into the smoke.

But then my phone buzzed—an unknown text: “Brother, trust no one. Enzo’s not who he seems. And Dante? Ask about his real role in our parents’ death.”

The world shattered. Was Dante hiding a betrayal deeper than any other? And what secret tied him to our family’s blood?

(Word count: 1156)