The first explosion ripped through the night at exactly 11:47 p.m.For one suspended second, Costa Nosa went silent—like the city itself was holding its breath.Then the world shattered.Glass burst from windows in every direction, raining down onto the streets like lethal snow. Car alarms screamed in panic as flames swallowed Lorenzo’s western gambling house, the fire climbing greedily toward the sky. The blast echoed across districts, rolling through alleyways and high-rise towers alike.Within moments, everyone knew—The war had begun.Bruno Deluca stood on the balcony of his mansion, unmoving, his hands resting on the cold iron railing. The night wind brushed against his face, carrying with it the distant wail of sirens—high and mournful, like widows crying for men not yet dead.Below him, his men moved with ruthless efficiency. Black-clad shadows checked weapons, loaded magazines, secured vehicles. There was no shouting, no hesitation. They had trained for this night their entire
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