When I grow up, I’m going to marry you.” The knife in Alessandro Romano’s hand stopped halfway to his plate.

The assault on Don Moretti’s riverfront estate was not a quiet operation; it was a total, biblical devastation executed by the full might of the Romano syndicate.

By 3:00 PM, black armored SUVs smashed through the iron gates of the Moretti compound. For two hours, the south side of Chicago echoed with the thunder of tactical warfare. Alessandro moved through the compound like a force of nature, his tactical squads systematically dismantling Moretti’s defense lines with cold, mechanical efficiency.

By 5:30 PM, the gunfire ceased.

Inside the grand office of the Moretti mansion, Don Frank Moretti sat behind his mahogany desk, bleeding from a shoulder wound, his hands shaking violently as he raised a gold-plated revolver toward the doorway.

Alessandro stepped through the shattered double doors. His black tactical vest was scorched, his face dark with soot, his eyes completely devoid of mercy.

"Alessandro... please..." Moretti stammered, his voice cracking with pathetic terror. "We were brothers once! Under the old council! We can make a deal!"

Alessandro didn't slow his stride. He walked straight toward the desk, ignoring the revolver pointing at his chest.

"You broke into my home, Frank," Alessandro said, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "You pointed a gun at a child."

"I didn't know!" Moretti wept, his fingers slipping on the gold trigger. "I thought she was just a servant’s kid—"

"She is my family," Alessandro interrupted coldly.

Before Moretti could pull the trigger, Alessandro lunged across the desk, grabbing the gold revolver and twisting Moretti’s wrist until the bone snapped with a wet crunch. Moretti screamed in agony, dropping the weapon.

Alessandro pulled his own sidearm from his hip, pressing the cold steel barrel directly against Moretti’s forehead.

"Tell God that Alessandro Romano sends his regards," Alessandro whispered.