Rain fell like a curtain across New York's harbor, turning the skyline into a watercolor smear of gray and gold. The city below was restless, cars slithered through slick streets, neon signs flickered like dying stars, and somewhere deep in the belly of Pier 42, an old man stood alone in a cavernous warehouse that smelled of rust and salt.
Anton Varga was not a tall man anymore. Age had bent him like a bowstring pulled too tight. But his eyes still burned with the fire of a younger man, one who had once ruled Brooklyn with iron fists and velvet smiles. He held a black-and-white photograph between trembling fingers. It showed him standing beside a boy of no more than ten, both grinning like they knew something the world didn't.
The boy was Luca.
His grandson.
The last piece of his bloodline.
He traced the edge of the photo with his thumb, remembering the day it was taken, the summer before everything changed. Before the betrayal. Before the silence. Before the fall of the Varga Empire.
A gust of wind slammed the warehouse door open. Rain swept inside, soaking the concrete floor. Anton didn't move. He simply tucked the photo into the inner pocket of his coat and turned to face the storm.
Outside, headlights cut through the rain like knives. A sleek black sedan rolled to a stop just beyond the threshold. Three men stepped out, their suits immaculate despite the downpour. They carried themselves like ghosts, silent, efficient, deadly.
Anton lit a cigar, its ember glowing faintly in the dark. "You're late," he said, voice rough as gravel.
One of them stepped forward, a younger man with cold eyes and a scar along his jawline. "Orders were clear. No survivors."
Anton exhaled smoke. "I raised you like a son. Taught you how to hold a gun before you could shave."
The young man didn't flinch. "That doesn't change what has to be done."
"You think Rocco will let you live after this?" Anton asked, stepping forward slowly. "You think he won't feed you to the wolves the moment you've served your purpose?"
"I serve the Family now," the young man replied. "Not you. Not anymore."
Anton smiled, but there was no joy in it. "Then come and take me."
The young man hesitated. Just a second. But it was enough.
In one fluid motion, Anton pulled a silenced pistol from beneath his coat and fired. Two shots, one to the chest, one to the head. The young man dropped without a sound.
The other two reacted instantly, drawing weapons and firing wildly. Anton ducked behind a stack of crates, bullets tearing through wood and metal. Smoke filled the air. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the scent of the sea.
He moved like a ghost, quick, precise, lethal. Another shot rang out. One enemy down. The last one charged, swinging a knife. Anton caught his wrist, twisted it hard, and drove the blade into the attacker's throat.
Silence returned, broken only by the patter of rain.
Anton stood amidst the bodies, breathing heavily. His hand went to his side, he'd been grazed. Blood soaked through his shirt. He looked at the dead man on the ground, the boy he'd once called nephew, once called family.
"Fool," he muttered, wiping blood from his brow. "You should have stayed loyal."
He limped toward the back of the warehouse, where shadows clung like cobwebs. A hidden panel slid open with a soft click. Behind it, a narrow passage led underground.
Before disappearing into the darkness, Anton paused. He looked back one last time at the place where it all began.
The past was buried here. But the future?
That was still waiting.
And someone would rise to claim it.