BLOOD OATH

Rain covered Brooklyn when Luca Moretti’s phone rang.

He stood outside a small Italian restaurant, black coat pulled around him, dark hair tied back, beard damp from the weather.

Five years.

Five years since he had walked away from the Moretti family.

Five years without collections, executions, meetings, or men lowering their voices when he entered a room.

He had almost learned how to be normal.

Then he saw the name on the screen.

MATTEO.

His younger brother.

Luca answered.

“Yeah?”

Heavy breathing.

Then:

“Luca…”

His expression changed immediately.

“Where are you?”

A crash sounded through the phone.

“Don’t come home.”

Luca was already moving toward his car.

“What happened?”

“I found something.”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have—”

Gunfire exploded through the phone.

Three shots.

A scream.

Then silence.

“Matteo?”

Nothing.

“Matteo.”

The line disconnected.

Luca reached his car.

Eleven minutes later, he was outside Matteo’s brownstone.

Police lights painted the street red and blue.

A stretcher came through the front door.

Black body bag.

Luca stopped.

Detective Elena Russo intercepted him.

“Luca.”

He looked at the stretcher.

“That him?”

Elena didn’t answer quickly enough.

Luca’s jaw tightened.

“Who?”

“We don’t know.”

He studied the doorway.

Shell casings.

No forced entry.

No shattered lock.

Two different firing positions.

“Two shooters.”

Elena frowned.

“You haven’t even been inside.”

“Matteo opened the door for them.”

“How do you know?”

“No forced entry.”

She remembered what he had been.

What he could still be.

“Go home.”

Luca stared at his brother’s body.

“I did that five years ago.”

“Luca—”

“I left.”

His eyes went cold.

“And apparently that didn’t protect anyone.”

That night an unknown number called.

Luca answered from his apartment.

“You should’ve stayed gone.”

He recognized the voice.

“Vittorio.”

A quiet laugh.

Vittorio Salerno.

Former Moretti underboss.

Now apparently something more.

“Your brother became involved in business that wasn’t his.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Matteo made mistakes.”

Luca walked toward his bedroom.

Behind his coats sat a steel cabinet.

He entered a six-digit code he had not used in years.

Inside were pistols.

Knives.

Body armor.

Cash.

Passports.

His old life.

“Did you kill him?”

Vittorio remained silent.

Luca removed a pistol.

Checked the magazine.

Loaded it.

“You’ve been gone too long,” Vittorio said.

“The city changed.”

Luca holstered the weapon.

“So did I.”

“You’re not the man everyone remembers.”

“No.”

Luca closed the cabinet.

“I learned patience.”

He disconnected.

Across town, Vittorio lowered his phone inside the Moretti social club.

Six men surrounded him.

One younger soldier laughed.

“He’s one man.”

Vittorio slowly looked toward him.

“You never met Luca Moretti.”

“So?”

Vittorio took a slow pull from his cigar.

“When Luca was twenty-eight, three families put twenty men in a hotel to kill him.”

The young soldier waited.

“What happened?”

“Luca walked out.”

“And them?”

Vittorio looked through the rain-covered window.

“Most didn’t.”

Back at his apartment, Luca buttoned his coat.

Five years earlier, he had sworn never to become that man again.

Tonight someone had killed his brother.

The oath was broken before Luca ever touched the gun.

He walked into the rain.

And by sunrise, everyone who mattered would know one thing.

Luca Moretti was back.