The harbor was too quiet. Steel crates lined the dimly lit dockyard like tombstones, and
five men stood under a flickering floodlight, soaked in sweat despite the cold. Fear sat heavy in their chests - not because the
shipment was gone, but because of who would come asking for it. "What the hell do we do?" one of them whispered, pacing with the phone in hand. "You think we can fix this before he finds out? "There's nothing to fix!" another barked. "Two guards are dead, and fifteen million dollars' worth of coke is just-gone!"
"We could lie," someone offered. "Say the Feds intercepted it."
A snort. "And when he finds out they didn't?"
"Jesus Christ…" The youngest among them sank into a crouch, head in his hands. "He's going to kill us all."
The group fell silent.
No one had to ask who he was.
A car engine purred in the distance—low, smooth, deadly. A black Maserati coasted through the dock's chain-link gate without headlights, gliding like a shadow until it stopped under the light.
No screech. No warning.
A suited man stepped out and opened the back door.
Luca Moretti emerged.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. Calm as a saint in a church made of corpses.
He approached without speaking. No one dared meet his eyes. He stopped just feet away, surveying the men, then the surrounding crates, then the bloodstain still wet on the asphalt.
"Where is the product?" he asked finally, voice like velvet over ice.
Silence.
Then one man stepped forward. "It—it's gone. We think the Red Vultures hijacked it—"
Bang.
He collapsed mid-sentence, blood pooling under his temple. The others flinched.
Luca handed the pistol back to his driver without glancing at the body.
"You," he said to the next man. "You were in charge of security."
The man stammered. "Boss, please, I swear I—"
Bang.
Another dropped.
"Burn the crates," Luca said flatly. "Sweep every gang in East Hollow and check the ports. When you find the product, you alert the rest—and we leave nothing standing."
Minutes later his phone buzzed. A single message lit the screen:
> Shipment confirmed. Vipers. West yard hideout.
Luca slid his phone away. "Let's pay them a visit."
---
West Yard – 2:11 a.m.
The Vipers never heard the trucks until it was too late.
Men in black poured through the rusted gates with military precision. The first guard barely turned before he was gunned down. Gunfire roared through the warehouse, bullets sparking off steel and glass. Some screamed. Most never got the chance.
Luca moved through the chaos like a ghost. Calm. Cold. Calculated.
He stopped only when he reached the rival gang leader—crawling across the floor, bleeding, weaponless.
"Why did you steal from me?" Luca asked.
"I didn't know it was yours—" the man gasped.
"Now you do."
Snap.
The body dropped. Luca wiped his gloves clean and nodded to his men.
"Light it."
His men doused the place with gasoline and walked away without a word. A minute later, fire swallowed the building, painting the night red and orange.
---
Back at her office the next morning, the stink of blood still clung to Celeste's senses. The file was already on her desk: autopsies, preliminary ballistics, scene analysis. Everything screamed gang-on-gang violence. But her gut said no.
There were inconsistencies. Brands of cigarettes not linked to the Vipers. Gunpowder residue that didn't match their known firearms. Unfamiliar boot prints near the exits.
She scribbled notes into the margins. Circled a name that kept reappearing: East Hollow. A redevelopment site. The Vipers were trying to muscle in, according to informants. But they weren't the only ones.
Celeste took a sip of cold coffee and picked up the phone.
"Marcus. I need you to pull property permits filed in East Hollow. Last six months. Anything connected to shell corporations or foreign investments."
"That'll take time," he replied.
"Then I'll wait."
She hung up and leaned back. The scene at the warehouse wasn't meant to scare the public.
It was meant to send a message.
But to whom?
---
Later that day, she walked into the downtown courthouse, her bag slung over one shoulder, tension radiating off her like static. Her hearing wasn't for another hour, so she made her way to the building's café.
She ordered chamomile tea. A temporary balm for a permanent headache.
That's when she noticed him.
A man in a navy-blue suit sat alone at a corner table. Everything about him was refined—the cufflinks, the posture, the eyes that watched the room like he owned it. Celeste glanced away, but it was too late.
Their eyes met.
He stood. Walked over. Confident. Smooth.
"Celeste Hart?"
She straightened. "Yes?"
"Luca Moretti," he said, extending a hand. "I'm on the city redevelopment board. Your name came up in a few legal memos."
His grip was warm. Firm. Too calm for a man likely tied to bodies.
"Oh? So what brings you to the courthouse?"
"Business permits," he said. "One of our projects ran into a delay."
East Hollow, she thought.
"You're with Moretti Construction?"
"Yes. I run it."
Her pulse ticked upward. The man in front of her wasn't just powerful. He was careful. Controlled. Dangerous.
"You look tense," he observed. "Rough case?"
"Yes. A massacre."
He smiled faintly. "Gang-related?"
"Maybe," she replied. But she knew it felt more... strategic.
Luca's eyes sparkled with something unreadable. "Some puzzles aren't meant to be solved. They hold the pieces of things best left broken."
And just like that, he walked away, leaving behind only the scent of sandalwood and something colder.
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She pulled out every file connected to East Hollow. Found connections between subcontractors and shady LLCs—but nothing concrete. Still, all roads pointed to Moretti.
Her phone buzzed.
Message from Marcus:
> You were right. Two of the companies tied to East Hollow were used in a laundering scheme five years ago. No convictions. Names erased. Guess who bought them out last year?
Luca Moretti wasn't just a businessman.
He was a chess master.
And she had just unknowingly walked onto the board.
---
The next morning, she walked into Hart & Associates, ready to dig deeper. But before she could reach her office, Jenna intercepted her.
"You have a new intake."
"Put it on the desk."
"It's urgent. He's here. And you might want to sit down."
Frustrated, she took the form—and froze at the name.
Luca Moretti.
He walked in moments later, perfectly groomed, exuding power.
"Miss Hart. Thank you for seeing me."
"I didn't have much choice, did I?"
He just smiled. "My company is under investigation. Environmental falsification. I need representation. I want someone fearless."
She studied him. "I'm sure you already have a legal team."
"I do. But they don't ask the right questions."
She opened the file. Everything was perfect. Too perfect.
"So you picked me because you know I don't trust perfection."
"Exactly."
Celeste's jaw clenched. Taking this case would give her access.
Access meant leverage.
Leverage meant truth.
She stood, hand extended. "Fine. I'll take the case."
Luca shook it, his eyes gleaming.
She didn't smile back.
I want you close, she thought. So I can take you down from the inside.
Only she knew she had just walked into a den of killers—on her own.