Antonio's POV:

The phone call came at dawn, piercing through the silence of the estate like a dagger. I had been sitting in my study, nursing a glass of whiskey that had gone warm hours ago. Sleep had eluded me once again, as it often did these days. My thoughts had been on Isabella, as they always were. Her absence was a wound that refused to heal, and though I had tried to push her out of my mind, she lingered there, stubborn and unrelenting.

When the phone rang, I knew it wasn't good news. Calls that came at dawn never were.

"Antonio," Enzo's voice was grim on the other end of the line. "There's been an attack. It was Russo's men. They hit our shipment near the docks last night. It's bad. Marco... Marco didn't make it."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Marco. He had been one of my most loyal men, someone I had trusted with my life. His death wasn't just a loss—it was an insult, a declaration of war from Giovanni Romano.

I set the glass down on the desk, my hand trembling with barely contained rage. For weeks, I had been trying to avoid this, trying to hold back the storm that had been brewing between our families. I didn't want a war—not because I was afraid of Russo, but because of Isabella. Even now, after everything, I couldn't bring myself to hurt her.

But this? 

This was different.

By the time I arrived at the docks, the sun was rising over the water, its golden light painting the scene in an eerie glow. The aftermath of the attack was laid out before me—cargo containers torn open, goods scattered across the ground, and the unmistakable stain of blood on the pavement.

Marco's body had already been taken away, but the memory of him lingered in the faces of the men gathered there. They looked to me, their eyes filled with anger and grief, waiting for my command.

Enzo stepped forward, his expression as grim as his voice had been on the phone. "It wasn't just the shipment, boss. They sent a message. This wasn't about business. It was personal."

I clenched my fists, my jaw tightening as I surveyed the damage. Of course, it was personal. Giovanni Russo wasn't just attacking my operations—he was coming for me. And worse, he had dragged Marco into it, a man who had nothing to do with the feud between us.

"Who's responsible?" I asked, my voice low and cold.

Enzo hesitated. "Russo's men. We've confirmed it."

The rage that had been simmering beneath the surface boiled over. I slammed my fist into the side of a cargo container, the sound echoing through the docks like a gunshot. For months, I had held back, hoping to avoid this very scenario. I had given Isabella space, respected her wishes, and kept my distance from her family.

But Giovanni had crossed a line. And I wasn't going to let it go unanswered.

Back at the estate, I paced the length of my study, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. My men were gathered outside, waiting for my orders. They wanted revenge, and they had every right to. Marco's death demanded justice, and the attack on our shipment couldn't go unpunished.

But this wasn't just about Marco. It wasn't even about the shipment. This was about Giovanni Russo thinking he could come into my world and take what was mine. He had made his move, and now it was my turn.

"Boss," Enzo said from the doorway, his tone cautious. "The men are ready. What's the plan?"

I turned to face him, my decision made. "We fight back," I said, my voice steady. "Hit them where it hurts. Their operations, their supply lines, their men. I want Giovanni to know that this isn't just a retaliation—it's a reckoning."

Enzo nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "And Isabella?"

Her name was like a dagger to the heart. For a moment, I hesitated, the weight of my decision pressing down on me. I didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to make her suffer. But Giovanni had made this personal, and I couldn't let him get away with it.

"She made her choice," I said finally, my voice cold and distant. "And so did her father. This is on him."

The attack came two nights later, swift and calculated. We hit one of Giovanni's warehouses on the outskirts of the city, destroying their supplies and sending a clear message that I wasn't playing games. My men moved like shadows, efficient and deadly, leaving nothing behind but destruction.

When I returned to the estate that night, the satisfaction of victory was short-lived. I stood in the dimly lit hallway outside my room, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. No matter how many battles I won, it never felt like enough.

Isabella's face haunted me, her eyes filled with pain and anger as she had walked away from me at the gala. She didn't understand why I had made the choices I had, why I had kept Sofia close despite everything. And now, with this war brewing, I knew she would only hate me more.

But I couldn't stop. 

Not now.

Over the next few weeks, the conflict escalated. Giovanni struck back, targeting another one of my shipments, and I retaliated by taking out one of his key distribution centers. The city became a battlefield, our men clashing in the shadows while the rest of the world carried on, oblivious to the war raging beneath their feet.

Each victory brought a fleeting sense of satisfaction, but it was always followed by the same hollow ache. This wasn't the life I had wanted—not for myself, and certainly not for Isabella. But Giovanni had forced my hand, and now there was no turning back.

One night, as I stood in the garden outside the estate, staring up at the stars, I allowed myself a moment of weakness. I closed my eyes and imagined what life could have been like if things had been different. If Isabella had stayed. If Giovanni had let us be.

But dreams were a luxury I couldn't afford.

The final straw came when one of Giovanni's men ambushed us in broad daylight, killing two of my men before being taken down. The boldness of the attack infuriated me, but it was the message that followed that pushed me over the edge.

It was a letter, delivered directly to my estate, signed by Giovanni himself.

"Antonio, you have taken too much, and I will not stand by and let you destroy what I have built. This is your final warning. Surrender, or face the consequences."

I crumpled the letter in my fist, my vision blurring with rage. Giovanni thought he could intimidate me, that he could force me to back down with threats and ultimatums.

He was wrong.

"Burn it all," I said, my voice low and deadly as I addressed my men that evening. "Every warehouse, every operation, every piece of his empire. I want Giovanni Russo to feel the weight of what he's done. I want him to regret ever crossing me."

The men cheered, their loyalty unwavering, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction. Giovanni had started this war, but I was going to finish it.

As I walked back to my study, the weight of my decision settled over me like a cloak. This wasn't just about Giovanni anymore. It was about Isabella, about everything we had lost.

If her father wanted to destroy me, I would make sure he paid for it with everything he had.

After hours of thinking-overthinking every situation that might happen I came to a conclusion:

Giovanni Romano had to die.

The decision was final.

The thought of taking his life didn't come lightly—despite my anger, despite the losses, despite the insults he had hurled my way. Giovanni wasn't just a rival. He was Isabella's father. But the more I thought about it, the more it became clear: this wasn't just about revenge. This was about sending a message, about proving that no one, not even Giovanni , could cross me and live to tell the tale.

The plan came together swiftly, each step meticulously designed to strike with precision. Giovanni's estate was heavily fortified, but no fortress was impenetrable. I knew his patterns, his habits, the way he moved through his domain like a king surveying his kingdom.

And I knew where to hit him.

The night was thick with tension, the kind that crawled under your skin and refused to let go. I stood outside Giovanni's estate, hidden in the shadows, my men stationed strategically around the perimeter. The air was cool and sharp, carrying the faint scent of the sea from the distant coastline.

"Everything's in place," Enzo whispered at my side, his voice steady despite the weight of the mission.

I nodded, my jaw tight. "No mistakes. We move in, execute the plan, and get out. Giovanni dies tonight."

Enzo gave a sharp nod, and I motioned for the men to move. They advanced silently, like wraiths in the darkness, slipping past the estate's outer defenses with practiced ease. I followed close behind, my focus razor-sharp.

The attack was swift and brutal. My men took out the guards with precision, their silenced weapons ensuring that no alarm was raised. We moved through the estate like a storm, leaving chaos in our wake.

And then, 

finally, 

we reached him.

Giovanni stood in his study, unaware of the destruction that had unfolded around him. His back was to the door, his hands clasped behind him as he stared out at the sprawling gardens beyond the window.

For a moment, I hesitated. Not out of mercy, but out of something deeper—something I couldn't quite name. This man, this monster, was the father of the woman I have loved. The same woman who had walked away from me because of his actions.

"Antonio," Giovanni said, his voice calm, as if he had known I was there all along. "I was wondering when you would show up."

I stepped into the room, my gun drawn, my men fanning out behind me. "I've been patient, Giovanni," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Too patient."

He turned to face me, his expression unreadable. "And now you've decided to end it. How predictable."

His calmness only fueled my rage. "You've crossed too many lines," I spat. "Marco's blood is on your hands. My men. My operations. You've made this personal, and now you'll pay the price."

Giovanni chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You think killing me will solve your problems? You think it will bring you peace?"

"I don't need peace," I said coldly. "I need justice."

I raised the gun, my finger tightening on the trigger.

The first shot rang out, a deafening crack that echoed through the room. Giovanni staggered back, his eyes widening in shock as blood blossomed across his chest. He fell against the desk, his hands gripping the edge as he struggled to stay upright.

But I wasn't done.

I fired again, the bullet slamming into his side, and he collapsed to the floor with a guttural groan. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, his blood pooling around him like a dark shadow.

I stepped closer, my gun still trained on him, my heart pounding in my chest. "This is what happens when you come after me, Giovanni," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "This is what happens when you think you can take what's mine."

His lips curled into a weak, defiant smile. "You'll regret this," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "You'll regret everything."

I stared down at him, the weight of his words sinking in. But I didn't waver. I couldn't.

This was justice.

This was revenge.

I turned to Enzo, who stood silently by the door, his face unreadable. "Burn it," I said, my voice hard. "Burn the estate. Leave nothing behind."

Enzo nodded, and the men set to work, dousing the room in gasoline. The acrid scent filled the air, mixing with the coppery tang of blood. I watched as Giovanni lay there, his body still and broken, his empire crumbling around him.

We left the estate in silence, the flames consuming it in the distance as we made our escape. The fire roared, a symbol of destruction and finality, and I felt a grim satisfaction knowing that Giovanni Romano was gone.

But as the adrenaline began to fade, a strange unease settled over me. The image of Giovanni's face, his defiant smile even in the face of death, lingered in my mind. His final words echoed in my ears, a haunting reminder that this wasn't over.

You'll regret this.

Back at the estate, I poured myself a drink, the glass trembling slightly in my hand. The war with Giovanni was over, but the cost weighed heavily on me. His death wouldn't bring Marco back. It wouldn't erase the damage he had done. And it wouldn't bring Isabella back to me.

But I had done what I had to do.

Or so I told myself.

The next morning, as I sat in my study, the weight of my actions settled over me like a heavy cloak. Giovanni was gone, his empire reduced to ashes. My men were victorious, their spirits high as they celebrated the end of the war.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Isabella would find out soon enough, and when she did, she would hate me more than ever. Killing her father wasn't just a blow to her family—it was a betrayal of the fragile bond we had once shared.

I closed my eyes, the image of her face flashing in my mind. 

Would she ever forgive me? 

Or had I just ensured that I would never see her again?

The questions gnawed at me, but the answers didn't matter. What was done was done.

For better or worse, I had made my choice.

And there was no turning back.

A long chapter, I hope you enjoyed it !