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ALESSIO ROMANO

The next morning, Alessio woke early, his mind sharper than it had been in weeks. Lorenzo's betrayal weighed heavily on him, but for the first time, there was a sense of purpose driving him forward. Emilio had made it clear that he would handle Lorenzo himself, but Alessio wasn't the type to sit on the sidelines, especially when the stakes were this high.

The family was under attack, and trust was in short supply. Alessio needed to ensure every loose end was tied up—Lorenzo might not be acting alone, and if there was a deeper conspiracy, it was his job to root it out.

By mid-morning, Alessio was in the family's secure warehouse on the outskirts of the city, meeting with a small team of trusted men. The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of motor oil and gunpowder.

"We've got a problem," Alessio said, addressing the room. His voice was steady, but the intensity in his eyes made it clear he wasn't messing around. "Lorenzo's been feeding intel to the Falcones. Emilio wants to handle him, but we can't assume he's the only one involved. I need eyes and ears everywhere. If anyone else is playing both sides, I want to know about it."

One of the men, Marco, leaned forward, his brows furrowed. "You really think Lorenzo had help?"

"Lorenzo's smart, but he's not that smart," Alessio replied. "The kind of intel he's been passing on—it's too detailed, too strategic. He's either got someone feeding him information or someone pulling his strings. Either way, I want answers."

The men nodded, their faces grim. They all understood the stakes.

"Keep this quiet," Alessio warned. "We don't know who we can trust right now. Report directly to me, and only me."

As the men dispersed to carry out his orders, Alessio stayed behind, staring at the map of the city pinned to the wall. He traced the locations of recent incidents with his finger, his mind piecing together the puzzle.

By early afternoon, Alessio's phone buzzed with a text from Emilio:

Lorenzo's been dealt with. Meet me at the estate.

The words sent a chill down Alessio's spine. Dealt with. Emilio's way of saying Lorenzo was no longer a problem.

When Alessio arrived at the estate, Emilio was waiting for him in the study. The air between them was heavy with unspoken tension.

"It's done," Emilio said, his tone cold and final.

Alessio nodded, but his expression was tight. "Did he say anything before...?"

Emilio's jaw clenched. "He denied everything at first. But when I pressed, he admitted to working with the Falcones. Said they offered him more than I ever could."

"Did he name anyone else?" Alessio asked, his voice sharp.

Emilio shook his head. "He claimed he was working alone. But I'm not convinced. That's why I need you to keep digging. If there's anyone else involved, I want their names—and I want them dealt with."

Alessio nodded, his determination renewed. "Consider it done."

That evening, Alessio sat in his apartment, his laptop open on the coffee table in front of him. He'd spent hours combing through financial records, intercepted messages, and surveillance footage, searching for any sign of a larger conspiracy.

His phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at the screen. It was a text from an unknown number:

Be careful who you trust. The Falcones aren't done yet.

Alessio's blood ran cold as he stared at the message. Whoever had sent it knew more than they should—and they were clearly watching him.

For a moment, he considered ignoring it. But he couldn't shake the feeling that this was bigger than just Lorenzo.

He typed back a response:

Who is this? What do you know?

A few seconds later, a reply came through:

Meet me tomorrow. The café on 6th Street. Noon.

Alessio leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. This could be a setup, a trap designed to take him out. But it could also be the lead he needed to unravel the Falcones' plan.

Either way, he wasn't about to back down.

As he set his phone down and poured himself another glass of whiskey, one thought lingered in his mind: The game wasn't over yet—and this time, he wouldn't lose.

Alessio stared at the glowing screen of his phone for a long moment, the weight of the unknown pressing down on him. The message was cryptic, deliberate, and unnervingly personal. Someone out there had access—not just to the Falcones' plans, but to him. That didn't sit well.

Leaning forward, he picked up his whiskey glass and downed it in one smooth motion, the burn in his throat grounding him. The Falcones weren't just making a power move; they were playing psychological games, and he hated the feeling of being a pawn on their chessboard.

Still, Alessio wasn't a man to back away from danger. If they wanted a game, he'd play—but on his terms.

He scrolled through his contacts, calling Marco. The phone rang twice before his trusted lieutenant answered.

"Boss?" Marco said, his voice clipped and alert.

"I need backup," Alessio said without preamble. "Quiet, low-profile. Tomorrow at noon, 6th Street Café. I'm meeting someone who claims to know what the Falcones are up to. Could be legit, could be a setup. Either way, I want eyes on the place."

"You got it," Marco said. "You want me inside, or keeping watch from outside?"

"Both. I want someone at the bar, someone near the exits, and a car ready to roll. If this goes sideways, I'm not walking out alone."

"Understood," Marco replied. "We'll be ready."

Alessio ended the call and set his phone down, his mind already running through contingency plans. He didn't trust coincidences, and the timing of this message—right after Lorenzo had been "handled"—felt far too convenient.

The next morning was a blur of preparation. Alessio double-checked his Glock, loading it with precision before slipping it into the holster beneath his jacket. He dressed in his usual black, the tailored suit making him look more like a businessman than a soldier, but every detail of his outfit was calculated for mobility and concealment.

Before leaving his apartment, he paused by the window, staring out at the city below. The Falcones had made their first move, but he'd make sure their next one would be their last.

The café on 6th Street was unassuming, a small, brick-walled spot tucked between a bookstore and a florist. Its cozy atmosphere and soft chatter made it seem worlds away from the dangerous world Alessio inhabited, but he knew better than to let his guard down.

He arrived ten minutes early, scanning the café as he stepped inside. Marco was seated near the back, nursing a coffee and flipping through a newspaper. Another of Alessio's men, Leo, stood near the door, blending in as a bored customer waiting for a takeaway order.

Alessio chose a table near the window, his back to the wall. He ordered an espresso from the waitress, keeping his tone polite but curt, then settled in to wait.

At exactly noon, the door chimed as someone entered. Alessio's gaze snapped to the figure—a man in his late twenties, wearing a plain gray hoodie and jeans. His dark hair was slightly messy, and he looked around nervously before spotting Alessio.

The man approached, hesitating for a moment before sliding into the seat across from him. Up close, Alessio could see the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and the way his hands trembled slightly as he set a folded piece of paper on the table.

"You're him, right?" the man asked, his voice low and shaky.

Alessio's eyes narrowed. "Depends who's asking. Who are you, and what do you know about the Falcones?"

The man glanced around nervously, his gaze lingering on Marco for a split second before returning to Alessio. "Name's Diego. I... I used to work for the Falcones, but I got out. Or at least, I thought I did."

"What do you mean, you 'thought you did'?" Alessio pressed, his voice calm but commanding.

Diego licked his lips, his nervous energy palpable. "They don't let people leave, not really. I've been keeping my head down, trying to stay off their radar, but I heard things—things you need to know."

Alessio leaned forward, his eyes cold and focused. "Start talking."

"They've been planning this for years," Diego said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They've got people inside your organization—people you wouldn't suspect. Lorenzo was just the start. There are others."

"Names," Alessio demanded.

Diego shook his head, panic flashing in his eyes. "I don't have them all. Just rumors. But they're everywhere—accountants, drivers, enforcers. And it's not just about taking over your territory. They want to burn it all down."

Alessio's jaw tightened, his mind racing. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because they're coming for me next," Diego admitted, his voice cracking. "I was supposed to run a job for them, but I bailed. Now I'm as good as dead."

Before Alessio could respond, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen and saw an incoming message from Marco:

Two men outside, watching the café. Could be Falcones.

Alessio's entire body tensed as his instincts kicked into high gear. "Diego, you're coming with me," he said, his voice low and firm. "Stay close, and don't do anything stupid."

Diego nodded frantically, his face pale.

Alessio signaled Marco and Leo as he stood, his movements deliberate. The two men positioned themselves strategically as Alessio led Diego toward the exit.

As they stepped outside, Alessio caught sight of the two men Marco had mentioned—both dressed in dark clothing, their eyes locked onto him and Diego.

"Get in the car," Alessio ordered, his voice like steel.

Diego hesitated for a split second before obeying, scrambling into the waiting SUV. Marco and Leo flanked Alessio as he slid into the driver's seat, his hand already reaching for his gun.

The two men didn't make a move, but Alessio knew this wasn't over.

As he pulled away from the café, his mind was already working on his next steps. The Falcones were tightening the noose, but they'd underestimated him.

This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was war.