The night skies above Volgaria were painted in smoke and fire.
Bullets tore through the air, echoing like thunder across the docks, drowning out the crashing of the waves below. Flames flickered from a burning shipment container, casting violent shadows over the battleground. Men barked orders in rapid succession, their voices raw with adrenaline and rage.
Matteo Corsini ducked behind the steel carcass of a fallen truck, his Beretta gripped tight in his bloodied hand. Sweat clung to his skin like a second layer, his jet-black shirt plastered to his torso. Around him, chaos reigned.
He took a breath.
Held it.
Then moved.
With the precision of a predator, Matteo rose and fired. Two men in Anton Vasiliev's colors went down with brutal efficiency. He didn't pause—just spun and moved to cover the right flank where Viktor's men were falling back under heavy fire.
"Move! Fall back and regroup behind the third container!" he barked.
The men responded without hesitation. He was Corsini. Their devil. Their king.
"Where the hell is Nikolai?" Matteo muttered under his breath, scanning the dim horizon.
As if summoned by the curse in his tone, a sleek black car skidded into the open yard from the opposite end of the docks. Its headlights cut through the smoke—and then the doors swung open.
Nikolai Romanov emerged like a specter of death. Clad in black, his silvery-blond hair slicked back, he walked with the arrogance of a man born to power and forged in blood. Behind him, half a dozen men followed—French mafia enforcers, armed and lethal.
Tension shifted in the air like the scent of lightning before a storm.
"Sorry for the delay," Nikolai drawled, stepping around a fallen body without so much as a glance. "Had a minor border problem. Solved it with dynamite."
Matteo gave him a look. "You always did like fireworks."
Nikolai smirked. "What's a war without a little show?"
Then Viktor Castellano appeared.
He moved like a storm cloud—black suit, black gloves, and eyes darker than the barrels of the guns in his hands. The unmistakable aura of control wrapped around him, thick as smoke. His presence commanded silence, even amidst the carnage.
"The eastern pier is compromised," Viktor said curtly, stepping beside Matteo. Blood was splattered across his collar, but his voice was cold and controlled. "Anton's men brought in another shipment of weapons. We need to shut them down before sunrise."
"We'll hit from both sides," Matteo responded, breathless. "Me and Nikolai will take the southern flank. You push from the warehouse. Box them in."
Nikolai cracked his neck. "Let's gut the bastards."
Without another word, the trio split—three devils walking into hell.
Matteo led his men through the maze of steel containers. Shadows danced with every step. The scent of blood, smoke, and salt filled his lungs.
He hadn't slept in two days. Hadn't eaten in nearly one.
And he hadn't looked at his phone.
Not once.
It was back at the Castellano estate, tossed onto the dresser in the room Viktor had given him. He remembered glancing at it when Viktor's urgent message came through—Volgaria. War. Come now.
And he had come.
Alessandra's face had flashed in his mind, just for a heartbeat. But he couldn't afford distractions. Not when Viktor's empire was under siege.
Not when Anton Vasiliev had finally made his move.
Now, with bullets flying and blood painting the ground, Matteo didn't have time for anything else.
Especially not love.
But even amidst the war, her name clung to the corners of his mind.
Alessandra.
He shoved the thought away.
Now wasn't the time.
A scream rang out ahead—followed by the sharp percussion of a grenade blast. Metal rained down from the heavens, the concussion sending a few men sprawling. Smoke poured in, swallowing the path forward.
Matteo covered his mouth with a gloved hand and pressed on, signaling his men to follow.
They fought like wolves. Like the royalty of shadows that they were. Viktor, Matteo, and Nikolai—each one raised in fire, hardened by betrayal, and crowned in blood.
At one point, Viktor regrouped with them at the command post Viktor's men had set up behind the shipping tower. His expression was grim.
"They're retreating," Viktor said, "but not running."
Matteo's eyes narrowed. "They're regrouping."
"They'll hit again before dawn," Nikolai added. "Anton wouldn't send this many men unless he had a bigger plan."
"I want him destroyed before morning," Viktor said, voice like ice.
"You'll have him," Matteo vowed.
And yet…
As Viktor laid out their next offensive, Matteo's gaze flickered eastward, toward the estate. Toward the silence he hadn't broken in days.
Unaware of the missed calls.
Unaware of the storm brewing back in Italy.
---
Meanwhile, in Rome…
Ricci Estate
The moon hovered high over the estate, its glow casting a silver sheen across the cold marble floors. Alessandra crouched by her bedroom door, her ear pressed to the wood, listening.
Silence.
Her heart beat loud in her chest, louder than the thoughts screaming in her head.
You're not going to sit here and wait to be owned.
She moved like a ghost, slipping across the room. Her hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob. It gave way with a soft click. No guards tonight. Not outside her door, at least. They must've thought the slap had been enough.
Or maybe they thought fear would keep her obedient.
Idiots.
She padded barefoot across the hall, clutching a satchel she had packed an hour earlier—cash, fake ID, dark clothes. Giuliana had helped her assemble it before the wedding was even moved up.
Just in case.
Her breathing was shallow as she made her way down the back servant's stairwell, her hand skimming the banister. Every step felt like walking the edge of a blade. But Alessandra didn't falter.
She couldn't.
She wouldn't marry Luca.
And if Matteo wasn't coming…
Then she would save herself.
The soft crunch of gravel outside the estate whispered to her ears. She made it past the back garden, crouching low, her pulse racing.
Almost there.
But her thoughts clung to one thing.
Not escape.
Not even freedom.
But him.
Where are you, Matteo?
Why haven't you come?
She shook her head, fury and desperation fueling her next step.
Screw them all.
She was done waiting for rescue.
She would find her own damn way.
---
Volgaria, 3:12 a.m.
The war at the docks raged until the sky began to pale with the approach of dawn.
Bodies littered the ground. Blood ran in quiet rivulets down the cracked pavement.
Matteo stood on the edge of the port, his chest heaving, gun still warm in his hand. Nikolai walked up beside him, brushing soot from his jacket.
"We held off completely" Nikolai said. "Absolutely."
Viktor approached next, pulling off his gloves, his jaw tight.
"We'll strike Anton's next destination, his villa. I want him bleeding by nightfall."
Matteo gave a nod but his eyes… shifted eastward again.
Nikolai caught the glance.
"What are you not saying?"
Matteo exhaled slowly. "I haven't checked my phone."
Viktor raised a brow. "Not even once?"
"It's in my room." Matteo rubbed the back of his neck. "I haven't touched it since I got here."
The silence that followed was loud.
"You better hope nothing's burning back home," Nikolai said, half amused, half grim. "Because with the Ricci family… silence usually means fire."
Matteo's heart dropped.
And for the first time in years, fear crept in—not for his life.
But for hers.