Five Years Ago…
Narrator
Somewhere in the Czech Republic…
A man was tied to a chair inside a dark, decaying hall. Sunlight barely filtered through the shattered windows, casting fractured beams across the dusty air. The room smelled of mold, blood, and death.
Outside, black-clad men patrolled every corner—some positioned on rooftops, others concealed in the bushes, eyes sharp and alert. A few were tucked into walls and alleyways that fed into the building, invisible to the untrained eye.
Inside, it was just as tense. The hall was surrounded—men stationed at every edge, scanning, silent, waiting.
In the middle of it all, a man sat bound to a chair. His once-black outfit was soaked in blood. His face was disfigured—battered, broken, and swollen. His nose had caved in from repeated blows, lips split, blood dripping freely from every wound. Yet, despite it all, he didn't beg. He didn't cry.
He sat upright, defiant.
To his right, at 3 o'clock, an old man sat in a creaky rocking chair, puffing on tobacco. At 9 o'clock, a young man in his late twenties stood rigid in a tailored black Armani suit, hands buried deep in his pockets, face emotionless.
And directly in front of the prisoner stood the boss—the king, the captain, the capon. The man who never lost.
He was young—mid to late twenties—dressed in faded blue denim jeans and a sleek black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal intricate tattoos that curled down his muscular arms. Two buttons at the chest were undone, revealing a glimpse of inked dragon on his toned torso. His entire physique looked carved from a model's portfolio, but his eyes—dark, dangerous—told a different story.
The sight of the man before him filled him with revulsion.
If it were up to him, he'd have strangled him already—and followed his ghost to hell, just to punish him again.
"Ma hai promesso di farmi sposare tua sorella se ti porto la sua testa."
("But you promised to let me marry your sister if I brought you his head.")
The injured man spoke in broken gasps, blood bubbling on his lips. They were speaking Italian.
"Stai zitto!"
("Shut up!")
The captain landed a heavy punch. The man coughed violently, spraying blood.
"Ti fidi di un diavolo? Come potrei cadere sciocco per permettere a un assassino come te di sposare mia sorella? Eh? Sono così stupido? Hai dimenticato la frase? Se vuoi mangiare con il diavolo, usa un cucchiaio lungo. Non puoi fidarti di un leone per custodire un'antilope. La farà cena."
("You trust a devil? You think I'd be foolish enough to let a killer like you near my sister? Am I that stupid? Have you forgotten the saying? If you want to dine with the devil, use a long spoon. You can't trust a lion to guard an antelope. He'll make dinner out of it.")
"Bastardo! Mi hai tradito! Mi hai mentito!"
("You bastard! You betrayed me! You lied to me!")
"Tu sei il tradimento più grande, Alessandro!"
("You are the biggest betrayal, Alessandro!")
Another brutal blow. Then another. Alessandro sagged forward, weak.
"Ti ho chiesto solo una cosa. La testa del Capitano Enzo. In una borsa di cocaina. E tu cosa hai fatto? Hai lasciato i tuoi uomini rovinare tutto. Ora il figlio del Capitano sa che io ho ucciso suo padre."
("I asked you for one thing. Captain Enzo's head. Inside a bag of cocaine. And what did you do? You let your men mess everything up. Now Enzo's son knows I killed his father.")
"Te lo sei meritato, vero?"
("You deserved it, didn't you?") Alessandro grinned with a wicked laugh, spitting more blood. "L'ho fatto apposta, idiota. Ti ho visto salire sempre più in alto. Non dovevi essere tu il capitano. Dovevo esserlo io, bastardo."
("I did it on purpose, idiot. I watched you climb higher and higher. You weren't supposed to be captain—I was, bastard!")
"Argh! Tu animale!"
("You animal!") The captain could no longer restrain his rage. He pounced, punching Alessandro again and again with devastating force.
From the rocking chair, the old man finally grew tired of the scene. He exhaled thick smoke and barked: "Sebastian, basta!"
("Sebastian, that's enough!")
But Sebastian wasn't stopping.
A sudden BANG! echoed through the room. A bullet struck the ceiling. Silence fell instantly.
The shot came from Mikolaj Jakub, a powerful Mafia elder. First cousin to Sebastian's maternal grandfather and a longtime ally of the Omowummi family, he was a feared legend.
He'd raised Sebastian from the age of seven. He was his godfather.
Beside him stood his only son—Antoni Jan Mikolaj Jakub—Sebastian's best friend, blood brother, and age mate. Antoni was as deadly as he was refined. He ran his father's vast banking empire across cities and nations. But today, he was here—as always—standing with Sebastian.
"Argh! Cazzo!"
("F**k!") Sebastian slammed his fist into the wall, cracking it. His body trembled with rage. "Non dirmi di calmarmi, nonno! Permettimi di uccidere questo animale! Ho sete di sangue!"
("Don't tell me to calm down, Grandpa! Let me kill this animal! I'm thirsty for blood!")
"Sebastian!" Mikolaj snapped.
But Sebastian had already drawn his revolver. In one swift motion, he fired—again and again—riddling Alessandro's head until there was nothing left to identify.
Antoni didn't flinch. He took a fresh cigarette, lit it, and calmly exhaled smoke.
That bastard deserved it.
Sebastian walked over to a bottle of whiskey on Mikolaj's table, uncorked it, and chugged the entire thing without a glass. Then he hurled the empty bottle across the hall.
"To nie była woda, Sebastian. Właśnie zabiłeś dzisiaj czwartą osobę. Czy to nie wystarczy, by ugasić pragnienie?"
("That wasn't water, Sebastian. You just killed your fourth person today. Isn't that enough to quench your thirst?")
Antoni spoke in Polish, amused.
Black-clad guards untied Alessandro's corpse and dragged it through the pool of blood for disposal.
Sebastian lit a cigarette and exhaled deeply.
"Naszym następnym celem powinien być teraz syn Enzo."
("Our next target now should be Enzo's son.")
"Ten czterdziestolatek jest tak łatwy jak ABC."
("That forty-year-old kid is as easy as A.B.C.")
Antoni smirked.
"Poradzę sobie z nim, jeśli mi pozwolisz."
("I can handle him if you let me.")
"Jest zdolnym facetem, Jan."
("He's a capable guy, Jan.")
Mikolaj replied, lighting another cigar.
"Jest tak trudny jak bieganie w labiryncie. Nigdy nie możesz powiedzieć, co zrobi."
("He's as tricky as a maze. You never know what he's capable of.")
"To dla mnie małe zadanie."
("That's a small task for me.")
Sebastian snorted.
"Mogę sobie z nim poradzić tak łatwo, jak pstryknięcie palców."
("I can deal with him as easily as snapping my fingers.")
He snapped his fingers to prove the point.
"Zapamiętasz moje słowa, kiedy nadejdzie ten czas. Nie martw się."
("You'll remember my words when the time comes. Don't worry.")
Mikolaj smirked knowingly.
Yes—Filip, Enzo's son, was no ordinary man. He was a ghost in daylight. A master tactician. The shadow of the Italian mafia. Just as Sebastian was the subhead of the Polish Mafia—right under Mikolaj—Filip was the heir and mastermind of his father's empire.
"Jedyną osobą, która może sobie z nim poradzić, jest... Sebastian."
("The only person who can deal with him is... Sebastian.")
Mikolaj's gray eyes rested on his godson.
"Ponieważ tylko on ma takie same motywy."
("Because only he shares the same motives.")
Truthfully, it was nearly impossible to tell who was more dangerous—Sebastian or Filip. Both were lethal in their own right. They shared the same sharp instincts, calculated logic, and elite-level combat skills. But despite their similarities, they were never friends. Never allies.
If anything, they were born rivals.
The only reason Filip allowed his father, Enzo, to be killed was because Enzo never listened. He ignored warnings. He underestimated Sebastian's clan and walked straight into their trap. They used him like a pawn—like meat thrown to wolves.
Filip could have saved him—he had the means. But his father's pride and refusal to collaborate sealed his fate. That deafness… that relentless independence... led to his brutal, untimely death.
And now, the game had changed.
The war had begun.
From this point on, Filip and Sebastian would go head-to-head—a bloody, brutal clash between two unstoppable forces, fighting tooth and nail until only one was left standing.