Judas Kiss

The old factory loomed against the stormy sky like a giant made of broken glass and rusty metal. Lightning flashed, lighting the empty windows where shadows danced. The building had once been the pride of New York's industrial age - now it served as a ghost, perfect for secrets and lies.

Luca's car pulled up to the entrance, tires crunching on scattered dirt. The headlights caught raindrops in their glow, making them look like falling diamonds.

"Stay alert," Luca told Joey, his driver. "Something doesn't feel right." He studied the building, noting the unusual quiet. Normally, a meeting of all captains would mean cars, guards, action. But the building stood quiet as a grave.

Rain started falling harder, big drops hitting the ground like tiny bullets. Marco arrived at the factory door, holding an umbrella. His smile looked strange in the darkness - too tight, too rehearsed. Like a mask that didn't quite fit.

"The captains are waiting inside," Marco called out, his voice echoing in the empty lot. "They're getting impatient. You know how Giovanni gets when he has to wait."

But Giovanni was always late to talks. Everyone knew that. Another piece that didn't fit.

Luca stepped out of the car, his hand brushing against his gun. The warning message from earlier kept playing in his mind: "Don't trust the shadows you call family." The weight of his weapon offered little comfort against the increasing unease in his gut.

The factory's main floor was eerily quiet. Their footsteps echoed off the high ceiling, bouncing between old machines and empty spaces. A single light bulb swayed overhead, causing moving shadows that made Luca's skin crawl. The air smelled of rust and lies.

Broken windows high above let in flashes of lightning, drawing strange patterns on the floor. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, a steady beat like a countdown.

"Where is everyone?" Luca asked, searching the darkness. His voice seemed to disappear into the vast space. "You said all the captains were here." He noticed shell casings on the floor - fresh ones, still shining.

Marco walked ahead, his shoes clicking against the concrete floor. Each step seemed to carry a certainty to it. "They're in the meeting room upstairs. Follow me." He wouldn't meet Luca's eyes.

As they climbed the metal stairs, Luca noted something odd - no guards. There were always guards at talks. Always. It was custom, protocol, survival. A boss without guards was like a king without a crown - dead.

The steps groaned under their weight, the sound echoing through the empty building. Each step took them further from safety, closer to whatever waited above.

"Marco," Luca grabbed his brother's arm, feeling the tightness in his muscles. "What's really going on?"

For a moment, Marco's face crumpled, showing real pain. The mask slipped, showing the little brother who used to crawl into Luca's bed during thunderstorms. Then his face hardened, like ice forming over troubled waters.

"I'm sorry, big brother," Marco whispered, each word heavy with meaning. "But this is the only way."

The lights suddenly blazed on, stunning Luca. Industrial lighting, the kind used in interrogations. Men emerged from the shadows, guns raised. But they weren't Moretti troops - they wore the black suits of the Sokolov syndicate. Their guns gleamed like teeth in the harsh light.

"You!" Luca growled, reaching for his weapon. But Marco was faster, pushing a gun against his back. The metal felt cold even through Luca's jacket.

"Don't," Marco whispered, his breath shaky. "Please don't make this harder than it has to be."

Rage and hurt burst in Luca's chest like shrapnel. Every memory of their childhood, every moment they'd shared, turned to ash in his mouth. "Why? After everything we've been through - everything I did for you!"

"That's exactly why!" Marco yelled, his voice breaking like glass. "Everything you did, everything you are! Do you know what it's like living in your shadow? Being the spare, the backup, the one nobody respects?" His words echoed off the walls, years of anger finally finding voice.

"So you sold me to Sokolov?" Luca's voice dripped with disgust. Each word was a blade, meant to cut deep. "Our own father would-"

"Our father is dead!" Marco's hand shook, the gun quivering. "And you're not him, Luca. You never will be. You think you're saving the family? You're smothering it. Suffocating me!"

Movement caught Luca's eye - more Sokolov men surrounding them, moving like sharks scenting blood. But they'd forgotten one thing: he wasn't just the boss because of his name.

Luca spun suddenly, years of street fights and survival taking over. His elbow knocked Marco's gun away, the weapon clattering across the floor. His hand connected with his brother's jaw, sending him stumbling backward. The sound of the hit was lost in the sudden eruption of gunfire.

The Sokolov men opened fire, but Luca was already moving. Years of dodging death had taught him to dance with bullets. He dove behind an old machine, sparks flying as rounds ricocheted off metal around him.

His gun came out smoothly, muscle memory taking over. Two quick shots - two guys down. Their bodies hit the floor with dull thuds, blood mixing with rainwater.

"Take him alive!" someone yelled from the shadows. "Viktor wants him breathing!"

Luca's laugh was bitter, the sound bouncing off the walls. "Come try it then! See what it gets you!"

He rolled to new cover, taking down another attacker. The man's scream was cut short. But there were too many. They were herding him, pushing him toward the center of the room where the lights were brightest.

A flash of movement - Marco had recovered, circling around with a split lip and hate in his eyes. "Stop fighting, Luca! You can't win this! It's over!"

"Watch me, little brother!" Luca grabbed a metal pipe, hurling it with deadly precision. It caught the nearest shooter in the face. The man went down hard, teeth scattered across the floor like bloody pearls.

But Marco was right - there were too many. Bullets kept coming, keeping him pinned. His gun clicked empty at the worst moment. The sound was like a death bell.

A shot rang out, different from the others - precise, planned. Fire burst in Luca's leg. He stumbled, catching himself against a wall. Blood soaked his expensive pants, but the pain only fueled his anger.

"That's for my men at the docks," a person called out. Smooth, educated, with a hint of Russian accent. A tall person stepped into the light - Viktor Sokolov himself, silver hair gleaming like mercury under the spotlights.

Luca bared his teeth in a bloody smile. "Come closer, Sokolov. Let me show you how a Moretti dies."

Instead of replying, Viktor nodded to someone behind Luca. Too late, he sensed the movement. The world slowed down, like in those moments before a car crash.

Something hard cracked against his head - the butt of a rifle, probably. The world spun, darkness creeping in at the edges. As he fell, he saw Marco's face - tears running down his cheeks, mixing with the blood from his split lip.

"I really am sorry," Marco whispered, but the words seemed to come from far away. "You gave me no choice."

The last thing Luca saw before darkness took him was Viktor's cold smile, those steel-gray eyes studying him like a scientist watching a fascinating specimen.

"Welcome to your new life, Mr. Moretti," Viktor said softly.

Then nothing but darkness.

When awareness returned, it came in pieces. Cold metal against his wrists - locks, expensive ones. The smell of fine leather and subtle cologne. Movement - a car, driving easily through the night. Classical music played softly from secret speakers - Mozart's Requiem. How perfect.

Luca forced his eyes open, fighting against the pounding in his head. He was in the back of a fancy SUV, hands cuffed behind him. His head throbbed where they'd hit him, and his leg burned from the gunshot. Blood had dried on his designer pants, making the fabric stiff.

Viktor sat across from him, watching with those steel-gray eyes. He looked more like a CEO than a mob boss - tailored suit, perfect stance, not a hair out of place. Two guards flanked Luca, their guns ready but held quietly.

"Where's Marco?" Luca's voice was rough, tasting of copper and treachery.

"Your brother is handling the transition," Viktor replied smoothly, as if talking a business merger. "The Moretti family belongs to me now. Well, what's left of it. Some of your men were... reluctant to accept new managers."

Rage gave Luca strength. He lunged forward, but the guards grabbed him, pushing him back into the leather seat. Viktor didn't even move. He just watched, like a man watching an interesting chess move.

"You're going to die screaming," Luca promised, each word dripping hatred. "I'm going to-"

"You're going to listen," Viktor cut him off, his words sharp as a blade. "Because I'm not going to kill you, Luca Moretti. I have much better plans for you." His smile was like winter frost - beautiful and dangerous.

The car turned onto a private road, going toward the gleaming towers of Manhattan. Above them, the storm finally broke fully, rain washing away the last traces of Luca's blood from the factory floor.

In the distance, Viktor's apartment waited like a castle in the sky, its windows glowing against the dark clouds. But for Luca, it would become a jail - and the beginning of something neither man could predict.

Back at the factory, Marco stood alone, looking at the blood on the floor. His phone buzzed - a message from Viktor: "It's done. The crown is yours now."

But as thunder shook the building, Marco realized something terrible: caps felt very different when they were stolen from your own blood. His split lip throbbed, a memory of his brother's last act of defiance.

The night wasn't over yet. And in New York's underground, betrayal was just the beginning of the game.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the empty building one last time. Somewhere in the darkness, a lone shell case rolled across the floor, coming to rest in a pool of blood and rainwater. The storm raged on, as if the sky itself was mourning the fall of a king.