"BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG."

The shots rang out, each one a terrifying reminder of my mortal danger. I ducked instinctively behind a nearby wall, my heart pounding in my chest. Slowly, cautiously, I raised my head, trying to discern the source of the gunfire. Just as I caught a glimpse of the shooter, another bullet whizzed past my face. Had it not been for my brother, Michael's quick reaction, pulling me back down, I would have been struck.

What got me in this situation?

I went out to our family bar with my brother, as usual, when I noticed a repulsive man trying to drug an underage bartender. I was furious. I couldn't stand the thought of a woman being raped right in front of me, so I shot him straight in the forehead. He dropped dead on the floor.

This might not have been a big deal if he had been just another ordinary jerk. But, of course, life is never that simple. It turns out he was the son of an underboss in the New York Mafia, and the New York and Italian Mafias have been locked in a long-standing feud.

I was raised to be extremely cautious of them; after all, they were our strongest and most dangerous enemies. My father would be proud that I took down a New York Mafia thug. But he wouldn't be pleased with my reasons. My father didn't care about women-they were just toys to him, to be used and discarded.

"You've just landed us both in serious trouble," Michael said, his face as expressionless as ever. I maintained my own stoic and intimidating demeanor, but Michael's level of detachment was something else entirely. Sometimes, even I can't figure out what's going on in his mind.

"That scoundrel came into our city, into our bar, and tried to drug an underage girl. It's disturbing that the girl seems to have no sense of self-preservation. Of all the jobs she could've taken, she chose to work at a bar with the highest number of rape cases." My frustration was growing by the minute.

For a brief moment, the gunfire stopped. I assumed the shooter had run out of bullets and would need time to reload. Michael and I seized the opportunity to return fire. The man was smart enough not to stick around and risk getting shot or captured. When we scouted the area, he was long gone.

"How did the New York Mafia find out about that scoundrel's death so quickly?" Michael asked, voicing the same question that had been on my mind.
"There are only two possibilities," I said, scanning the area for any clues. "Either the New York Mafia sent someone to spy on us or to negotiate something, or the shooter wasn't affiliated with them at all."

Michael frowned, clearly puzzled. "You mean he was sent by someone else? So, we would've been attacked whether you killed that guy inside or not?"

"Exactly." I let out a sigh. "Either way, we should keep this attack to ourselves. We'll just tell Dad that the underboss's son pissed me off, so I shot him." I knew that if we mentioned I killed someone to protect a girl, the consequences would be severe.

Michael and I got into the car-he took the passenger seat while I drove. I didn't like having drivers; it was just another way for Dad to keep us on a short leash.

My two brothers and I had just bought a massive mansion. It had a garden, a pool, and top-notch security-probably even better than Dad's place. He was furious when we moved out, knowing he was losing his grip on us as we got older. I was certain he'd come up with some scheme to reassert his dominance. It was only a matter of time.

The ride home was quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. When we reached the gates of our mansion, I got out to have my face scanned so they could open them. Once back in the car, I drove down to the underground garage. After parking, we took the elevator up to the house.

"We'll have to tell Dad about this first thing tomorrow, before he hears it from someone else," Michael said. I nodded in agreement. In the twisted world we lived in, trust was fragile. Everyone looked out for their own interests. The only people I knew I could rely on were Michael and my youngest brother, Gabrielle. I didn't even trust my own father. To him, we were just pawns on a chessboard.

It's only a matter of time. I'm determined to find a way to overthrow him, to earn the loyalty of the Italian Mafia, and to lead us to peace. That's my only goal. I want to end his life with my own hands-I've wanted that for years. All those times he beat us for being weak, for showing any emotion. I had the tears beaten out of me. "Men don't cry," they said. It was the same for Michael. We did our best to protect Gabrielle from our father, but there was only so much we could do with him in control of the Mafia. We couldn't even cry at our mother's funeral; we knew the consequences. All her belongings were burned-photos, clothes, everything. I managed to save one photo: it was of her holding me and Michael, pregnant with Gabrielle. It's the only thing I have left of her.

My thoughts were interrupted when Gabrielle approached me.

"Raff, what's for dinner?" he asked, his voice tired.

"We'll order something in," I replied. He nodded.

"How was your day at college?" Michael asked casually, throwing himself onto the couch.

"Boring as usual. But something felt off today. I had the strange feeling someone was following me, watching me all day." I froze, exchanging a glance with Michael. His expression had turned serious.

Something was definitely wrong. Was this just the New York Mafia, or was there someone else out there who wanted us dead?