Michael De-Santi POV
I slowly turned the knob on my scope, focusing the crosshair in the middle of my sight. I slowly rotated my sniper, scanning the shipment port twelve hundred meters away. My breathing steadied as I laid my eyes upon my target, Viasto Bianchi, who was aligned perfectly within my sight.
The Bianchi family has been rivals with the De-Santi family for decades. Though we are all criminals, their operations and ideology were brutal. They'd kill indiscriminately, irrespective of gender or age. They would even kill brutally, even without being on a mission. And worst of it all, they allowed inward killing. Every failed mission was an automatic death sentence. I had always made sure to take on all Bianchi missions myself.
Now, quiz of the day: Heart shot or headshot?
It was one of my habits to contemplate which part of my target would take my shot. I was weighing my options as I tapped against the trigger slightly. I waited for a few moments before I settled for the heart and locked in. I held my breath to focus the shot.
The second I was about to press the trigger, a call came in, causing me to vibrate. The shot practically blew his hands off. But I had already failed.
"Shit," I said as I packed up my Remington MSR sniper in my bag. I didn't have time to contemplate my mistake. I just needed to make a run for it, as his men were already chasing from the direction the bullet came from.
I was always sure of every mission, so I usually had only one exit planned out.
Well, of course, today was different. I scanned the dimly lit alley. I knew they were coming, and could feel the tension in the air. Suddenly, two of the Bianchi's men emerged from the passage to my exit, their intent clear.
One lunged at me with a knife, aiming for my ribs. I sidestepped, catching the man's wrist and twisting it sharply. The knife clattered to the ground as the man cried out in pain. Using the momentum, I drove my elbow into the man's face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone. The first assailant crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
The second man, larger and more buffed, charged at me with a roar.
"Whoa, you are huge, fam. Can't we do this...," I was interrupted as I immediately dodged under the wild swing, hitting him with a solid punch in his gut. As the man toppled over, I brought my knee up into his face, sending him staggering back. He regained his stance quickly, throwing a series of punches. I evaded each one, my movements fluid and precise. I saw an opening and delivered a swift uppercut, followed by a kick to the side of the head. He fell, his head hitting the pavement with a dull thud.
"We could have been friends, though," I said, breathing heavily with a smile. I took a moment to assess my surroundings. Both men lay unconscious at my feet. Without wasting any more time, I immediately dug into my pocket, pulling out my keys and pressing the start button as I could hear more men heading my way. I turned the corner to see my all-black McLaren 720S roar to life. I opened the driver's side door and slid into the leather seat. I tossed my sniper into the backseat. "What a drag," I muttered before taking a much-needed deep breath.
As my adrenaline died down, it was replaced with anger. On every mission I went on, I had to carry a phone, and the only person who could call me was the boss, whom I will take over from.
There were only two things to be said when he called: "Is the job done?" or "It has been cancelled." It couldn't be the former because I always hit the deadline, and it most certainly must not be the latter because no mission on the Bianchi family has ever been cancelled.
I gripped my wheel firmly, grumbling as to why he called. "I have to go see him then," I said as I took a sharp left turn, heading for his mansion.
I approached his fortified mansion. The outer perimeter was surrounded by an electrified fence, the sound of electricity a constant reminder of its lethality. Surveillance cameras dotted the area.
I greeted the first layer of guards—buffed men armed to the teeth, patrolling with the precision of a military unit. "Welcome home, sir," they nodded in recognition, allowing me to pass.
The second layer consisted of biometric scanners and a reinforced gate. I placed my hand on the scanner, the green light acknowledging my identity. Beyond this was the center of my father's fortress: a maze of hallways monitored by motion sensors and more guards, some with wild dogs on tight leashes.
Finally, I reached the main building. I bypassed the final security checkpoint, a retinal scanner that only recognized members of the family. The door unlocked, granting me access inside.
I entered the room, the door slamming against the wall. I took a deep drag from my cigar, the smoke curling around me as I exhaled slowly.
My father, startled, looked up with a scowl. A naked woman, one of his staff, was settled on his lap, her cheeks flushed, hair scattered.
"Don't you ever knock?" my father growled, pushing the woman away as he stood up, glaring at me.
My father's robust body could not be mistaken, the muscles beneath his skin, taut and powerful. He possessed the same unique hair I had inherited, thick and grey, with a distinctive silver streak running through it. His face, though aged, bore a striking resemblance to mine, with sharp, chiseled features.
My entrance ruined the moment. My father looked up, his expression dull as ever, muscles rippling as he pushed the woman away and stood up. She packed her clothes and left.
"What was the call about?" I asked, still smoking. "You interrupted my mission."
"Hope you did not kill him," my father said as he stood up.
"What do you mean? Was I not supposed to? Anyway, I could only blow his arm off," I said with a hint of curiosity, trying to grasp the reason behind my father's reaction.
"Are you insane?" he raised his voice. "We are going to be joined to the Bianchi family soon."
I paused in shock, dropping my cigar and stomping it out. "I do not want to even know about any discussion you've had, but as long as I am the heir of this family, that decision will not stand."
"You are still young, you do not underst—"
"I do not care," I insisted with a fierce look, intercepting his words and walking out of the room, my hands tucked in my pockets.
Anthony De-Santi's POV (Michael's father)
"How do I explain it to him?" I asked, with a concerned look to my butler.
My butler, Andrew De-santi, walked up to me laying his hands on me. "If he won't learn by words, he will learn by experience."
I looked at him with a more concerned and desperate look. I knew Danger was looming.