⚠️ Warning: This episode contains blood, violence, and strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

The rain came down in thick sheets, the kind that blurred out the moon and made blood wash down the gutters unnoticed. Rome was rarely this quiet. But in the back alleys behind the warehouse district, silence was a sentence of violence.

Fabio Bagrovskiy stood beneath a rusting fire exit, the hem of his long black coat brushing against his boots. His eyes, colder than the steel gun in his gloved hand, fixed on the trembling man kneeling before him as he smoked his cigar. He had once worn the Bagrovskiy crest with pride—now, his betrayal dripped from him like sweat.

"Please," he gasped. "Mr Bagrovskiy, you don’t have to do this."

He tilted his head. “You gave our shipment locations to the San Diego family. Four million euros and weapons. Gone?.”

His voice cracked. “I.. I was desperate. My wife...she needed...”

He raised the gun and silenced him with a single shot to the head.

No hesitation. No emotion. The other men—his crew—watched quietly. They needed to see this. The streets weren’t run with sympathy. Power came from fear, and fear was earned.

He turned to Gabriel, his second-in-command. “As usual. Send his body to the San Diego Family.”

Gabriel nodded and snapped his fingers. The others dragged the body away.

Mr Bagrovskiy walked alone down the alley, the rain soaking through his clothes. This wasn’t the life he chose. It was the legacy he inherited. Ever since his father’s assassination ten years ago, he had clawed his way into power, proving himself to the old guard and the council of capos.

At 26, he was the youngest Bagrovskiy ever to command.

As he turned the corner, a flash of motion caught his eye. A figure slumped against the brick wall, blood soaking his shirt. He bent down, drawing his gun.

"Who sent you?" both pointing guns.

His eyes fluttered open, confused. Fuck, what perfect luck. He muttered to himself.  “Help… me…” He said it while gasping for breath.

Japanese accent. Civilian clothes. But the wound—close-range gunshot, expertly aimed to miss vitals. Professional. He stood, calculating. A trap? But there were no cars, no backup, no noise.  He thought to himself.

"You’re bleeding out.. Help you say? " he said coldly. "Why would I, when I can kill you right now?"

He gave a half-laugh that turned into a cough. “If you kill me, you’ll never know who tried to set you up.”

His eyes narrowed.

"Talk." He looked at him as if he could attack him at any moment.

“I can’t. Not here. I need… time. Please. I’ll tell you everything.”

Curiosity and instinct drove him. Every rule he lived by told him to walk away—or finish him. But something in his eyes, behind the pain and blood, made him pause.

"Fuck...Get up," he said, putting his arm over his shoulder. "You’ve got one night. Lie to me, and I’ll finish what they started."

As they disappeared into the shadows, the city continued to rain.

But the game had already begun.