The moonlight draped itself over the cracked streets of Little Havana, casting long shadows between rows of brick buildings and flickering neon signs. The rumble of twin engines echoed through the alleyways—Felix and Ivan rode side by side on their beloved bikes, the chrome reflecting the chaos they'd just left behind.
Their jackets were torn, blood still fresh on Ivan's knuckles. Felix's hand tightened around the handlebar, his eyes darting to the side mirror. They'd left a mess—two bleeding bodies and a shattered bar counter, all because one guy decided to mouth off about Felix.
"You didn't have to shoot him, you know," Felix muttered, still catching his breath.
Ivan, cigarette hanging from his lips, cracked his neck. "Yeah? He didn't have to talk shit either."
"Fuck's sake, Ivan. You can't shoot everyone who says something dumb."
"Maybe. But tonight I could." Ivan smirked and blew a cloud of smoke. "Looked like you were about to lecture him to death anyway."
Felix chuckled under his breath, the tension easing just a bit. But the laughter didn't last long.
As they pulled into the backlot of their apartment, Felix noticed something. The same black car parked across the street for the third night in a row. Tinted windows. Engine off. No one ever came out.
"You seeing that?" Felix asked, nodding toward the car.
Ivan didn't look. "Seen it. Don't know who the fuck it is yet."
"You got enemies I don't know about?"
Ivan tapped the ash off his cigarette and shrugged. "I got enemies even I don't know about."
They entered the apartment—walls lined with maps, notes, bullet casings, and a few scattered Polaroids of people they'd put in the dirt. But that night, something different was waiting.
A small envelope on the table. No stamp. No sender. Just their names scribbled across it.
Felix picked it up, eyebrows furrowed. "You expecting mail?"
Ivan snatched it, tore it open. Inside: a note written in type. No handwriting, no prints.
> "You boys like blood and money. Come earn it. Tomorrow. 1AM. The Pit. Don't be late."
Felix looked at Ivan, who was already grinning like a devil.
"The Pit," Ivan repeated. "That underground doghouse outside Wynwood. This ain't no friendly invite."
Felix exhaled. "Someone wants to see if we bleed."
---
The Next Night — The Pit
The Pit wasn't a place you stumbled into. You were summoned. Concrete walls, sweat-soaked crowds, and echoes of bone cracking under neon lights. The moment they walked in, all eyes turned. Whispers passed like wildfire.
"Those the two?"
"Yeah. The tall one's the psycho. Other one's the smart one. They call 'em... what? Fortress and Fiend?"
"Not yet," Felix muttered, overhearing.
Ivan cracked his knuckles. "Let 'em call us whatever the fuck they want."
A brawl was already underway. A man was being dragged unconscious out of the ring. Blood spattered the floor. A mountain of a man stood in the center of the pit, shirtless and snarling.
A voice called out from the shadows.
"You the boys from Havana?"
They turned. A thin man in a blue suit, half his face burned, stepped forward. He was flanked by two goons—tattoos, gold chains, dead eyes.
"I'm Marlo. Local boss here. I sent the note."
Ivan tilted his head. "You call this a fucking job interview?"
Marlo smiled without humor. "Nah. This is initiation. You two vs. my top men. Survive, and maybe I let you breathe again."
Felix sighed. "We always get the polite invites."
---
The Fight
They didn't wait.
Ivan charged like a fucking storm, fists flying, boots slamming into ribs. Blood splashed across his cheek, but he didn't care—he was laughing.
Felix moved like a ghost—ducking, dodging, elbows crushing jaws with surgical precision.
One of Marlo's men pulled a blade. Felix saw it. Before it could slice him, Ivan dropped the guy with a knee to the throat.
Felix grabbed Ivan by the collar. "You wanna get stabbed tonight, or can we be done?"
"I'm just warming up, hermano."
Three minutes. That's all it took. Five men on the ground, groaning, twitching.
Marlo clapped slowly. "Impressive. That was some fortress-and-fiend type shit."
Ivan smirked. "We cousins. Don't forget it."
Marlo's eyes narrowed. "I won't. I got more blood for you to spill, boys. Let's talk business."
---
Later That Night
Back at the apartment, Ivan lit a cigarette, bruised and grinning. "You know they're watching us, right?"
Felix nodded. "Yeah. And not just Marlo. Someone bigger."
"They'll make their move. Eventually."
Felix stared out the window at the black car, still parked across the street. "Let them. We'll be ready."
---
Chapter 5: Baptism in Blood
The stench of gasoline and smoke still lingered from the previous night's chaos. The air was thick with tension and diesel, the kind of morning where the city didn't wake up—it staggered back to its feet after getting sucker-punched by the night. Felix stood by the cracked window of their safehouse, sipping black coffee like it was holy water. Ivan, on the other hand, was passed out shirtless on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, a cigarette still burning between his fingers.
"You know that shit'll kill you, right?" Felix muttered, not turning around.
Ivan groaned, one eye blinking open. "So will a bullet to the head. At least this tastes better."
Before Felix could respond, a knock—slow, deliberate—broke the silence.
Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks. The signal.
Felix walked over, undid the locks, and opened the door just enough to peer through. Outside stood a man—mid-40s, grizzled face, thick scar down his cheek. Ricardo, the local boss's right-hand man.
"Get dressed," he growled. "Boss wants you two to run an errand."
---
Ten minutes later, Felix and Ivan were rolling down the Miami streets on their bikes, engines snarling like wolves.
"What kind of errand needs us before breakfast?" Ivan asked, lighting another cigarette.
Felix shrugged. "Something tells me it's not flowers and chocolates."
They pulled into a warehouse on the outskirts of Little Havana. Inside, crates were stacked high, and men with automatic rifles patrolled like dogs off the leash. Ricardo waited by a table covered in blueprints and photos.
He pointed at the images. "This is the Salazar deal. Cocaine. High grade. They're moving it through our turf without asking. Boss wants it stopped. Tonight."
Ivan grinned. "Finally. Something fun."
Ricardo didn't smile back. "This ain't fun, boy. It's a test. You fuck this up, you're done. You pull it off... you're in."
Felix leaned in. "How many men they got?"
"Eight. Maybe ten. Armed. Ruthless. But they're not expecting heat yet."
Ivan cracked his knuckles. "Then let's be the goddamn fire."
---
That night, the warehouse raid went off like a symphony of violence. Felix slipped through the shadows, disabling lookouts with brutal efficiency. Ivan? He went in guns blazing.
"Time to paint the floor red, you bastards!" he roared, opening fire with twin pistols.
Bullets screamed, men yelled, crates shattered. One of the Salazar goons lunged at Felix with a machete, but he parried the blow and slammed the guy's head into a steel beam.
"Stay down if you wanna keep breathing," he warned coldly.
Meanwhile, Ivan kicked a man into a stack of crates and shot another through the knee. Blood sprayed across his face.
"Tell Salazar the Fiend says hi," he spat.
By the time the dust settled, only Ivan and Felix were standing—bloodied, bruised, but breathing.
---
Back at the safehouse, Ivan stitched up a wound on Felix's arm. Felix hissed.
"You need to stop diving into bullets for me."
Ivan chuckled. "Then stop looking like a damn target."
"You're a maniac."
"And you're a fortress. My fortress."
They both laughed—tired, raw, but real.
Their bond was sealed not in blood, but through it.
Just as they were about to crash, a package arrived—no name, no return address. Inside: a single Polaroid of them at the raid, taken from a distance.
Written on the back, in red ink:
"We see you. Keep climbing."
Felix looked at Ivan.
"So... someone's watching."
Ivan lit another cigarette. "Good. Let 'em watch. We ain't stopping now."
Chapter 6: The Test of Blood and Smoke
The local boss didn't waste time.
By morning, word had spread about the duo who tore up a nightclub and walked out unfazed. Ivan and Felix were summoned to a downtown bar fronting as a pool club, but behind the velvet curtain and Cuban cigars, it was a known hangout of one of Miami's mid-level bosses—Marlo"
The door opened to cigar smoke, old-school jazz playing low, and eyes that knew death too well. Felix walked in first, scanning. Ivan lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly as if it were just another Tuesday.
Marlo sat behind a table, rings on every finger, his shirt open just enough to reveal the glint of a gold chain and a pistol holster.
"So... you're the street lions everyone's whisperin' about?" Marlo smirked, tapping ash into a golden tray.
Ivan stepped forward, leaned on the table.
"We ain't lions, Marlo. Lions don't crave chaos. We're something worse."
Marlo nodded, amused. "I like worse. Worse is useful."
Felix didn't smile. His eyes locked onto Marlo. "What's the job?"
Marlo looked between them. "There's a shipment coming in tonight. Cocaine. Pure. It was supposed to be protected by my guys, but someone's been cutting deals with the Colombians behind my back. I want it stopped."
Ivan scoffed. "How many bodies are we talkin'?"
Marlo leaned in. "All of them. And I want the traitor's head in this ashtray by morning."
Felix cracked his knuckles. "Names?"
marlo smiled and slid a small paper over. "You figure out the rest. Consider this your audition. You pull this off, you're not just errand boys anymore. You'll have a seat."
They left the bar without a word.
---
Midnight. Dockyard #17.
Felix and Ivan stood overlooking the warehouse from the rooftop of a shipping container. It was quiet, too quiet. Felix checked his Glock, whispering,
"Two guards, both smoking. Third pacing. One behind the door. I count five."
Ivan smiled, cigarette dangling.
"So we kill six, just to be safe."
Felix shook his head. "Just disable one. We need answers."
Ivan leapt off the container like a cat from hell.
Crack. One down. Bang. Another shot rang through the silence. Chaos erupted.
Felix followed, sliding over crates, dropping one guard with a knee to the throat, another with a silenced shot to the leg.
One guy tried to run. Ivan tackled him, gun to his mouth.
"You working with the Colombians? You got ten seconds before I redecorate this dock in your brain matter."
"It... it was Sanchez... he made a deal..."
Ivan shot him anyway.
Felix sighed. "I needed more."
Ivan stood, flicking blood off his hand. "He was lying. His eyes twitched. I hate liars."
They found the stash. Hidden under fish crates—bricks of cocaine sealed tight. Felix looked at Ivan.
"You good with this? We hand it back?"
Ivan's smile faded. "This much power... and we're supposed to be delivery boys?"
"We're not ready to hold it ourselves. Not yet."
"I know," Ivan whispered. "But one day, this city's gonna bleed our name."
---
Back at Richie's
Felix tossed a bloodied bag on the table. Ivan followed, dropped a severed head wrapped in plastic onto Richie's ashtray.
"Told you," Ivan muttered. "Worse."
Richie leaned back, genuinely impressed. "You crazy sons of bitches... welcome to the family."
They left, not saying a word.
Outside, Felix leaned on the wall, breathing deep. "You enjoyed that too much."
Ivan shrugged, lighting another smoke. "I only enjoy the right violence. That guy disrespected your name. That's enough for me."
Felix looked at him, a flicker of brotherly affection behind his calm eyes. "You ever get tired of leaving a trail of blood?"
Ivan smiled. "Only when the trail stops leading to something worth it."
They walked into the night, the distant sound of bikes echoing through the Miami alleys.
The city wasn't ready. But it was watching.