The silence that followed the gunfire at the docks was almost sacred.
The night smelled like metal—blood and gunpowder—and the moon overhead seemed to shrink back behind a veil of clouds. Felix lay slumped against a stack of crates, his side bleeding and his breath shallow. Ivan crouched beside him, teeth clenched, face smeared with blood that wasn't just his.
"They fucking set us up," Ivan growled.
Felix coughed, barely managing a nod. "Just… get us outta here, man."
Ivan's fists trembled as he applied pressure to Felix's wound, his mind whirring like a runaway train. Marlo's men. Those rats didn't just come to scare them—they came to bury them.
But the sons of Miami weren't going down that easy.
Gunfire echoed again—more shooters arriving, maybe cleanup. Ivan looked toward the alley where they'd parked their bikes. No choice.
"Felix," he said, voice low but sharp. "You hold on. I swear to fucking God, you don't get to die tonight."
"I'm not dying, asshole," Felix whispered. "I ain't leaving you alone to screw things up without me."
Ivan grinned—a dark, furious grin.
He hauled Felix up with strength that seemed to come from pure rage, slinging his arm around his neck. Every bullet that whizzed past felt personal now. They stumbled toward the exit of the docks, every step soaked in grit and pain.
By the time they reached the bikes, Felix's vision was blurry.
"You're not driving," he muttered, but Ivan had already strapped him to the backseat of his ride.
"I ain't asking."
He revved the engine, blood splattered across his shirt and arms. His eyes were hollow, fire behind them. The engine roared like a beast. He turned that bike like a bullet, racing through the streets of Miami with one destination—Marlo's office.
---
Marlo's Office, Little Havana
Marlo lit a cigar and laughed with two of his goons. "I told you, didn't I? You want to rule the jungle, you don't feed flies. You squash 'em."
One of his men nodded. "You think they're dead?"
"Dead or dying," Marlo shrugged. "Makes no difference."
A second later, the office door burst open—no knock, no warning. Just wood splinters and fury.
Ivan.
Blood on his face, jacket torn, his pistol already drawn. And the look in his eyes wasn't rage—it was war.
"Motherfucker," he hissed.
Marlo stood. "Oh? You lived?"
Ivan didn't answer. He fired. One shot took down the goon by the door.
Marlo ducked behind the desk, screaming, "FUCKING SHOOT HIM!"
Ivan didn't flinch. Another round. The second guard collapsed.
He kicked over the desk, grabbed Marlo by the collar, and slammed his face into the floor. Blood sprayed like paint.
"You think you're a lion?" Ivan spat. "You think you run this jungle?"
"Ivan—wait—let's talk—"
"You don't talk after sending men to shoot me and my brother."
He raised his pistol. But just then, Felix's voice echoed faintly from behind.
"Ivan…"
Ivan turned, surprised to see Felix at the doorway, staggering, a bloody cloth pressed to his ribs. "Don't kill him yet."
Felix stepped forward. "We need answers. Then we burn him."
Ivan lowered the gun… just a little. "You got five seconds to talk, Marlo."
The local boss trembled, broken nose gushing red.
"You two…" he whispered. "You're not normal. You're poison in the system. The big bosses… they saw it too. I was just… cleaning house."
Felix looked at Ivan. "He's not working alone."
Ivan nodded slowly. "Then we're just getting started."
He raised the gun one more time and pistol-whipped Marlo into unconsciousness.
Then he turned to Felix. "Let's get you patched. We got a fucking war coming."
Felix smiled faintly through the pain. "You always wanted one."
Ivan's grin returned. "And you always wanted peace. Too bad you're stuck with me."
They walked out together—bloodied, scarred, and very much alive.
But behind them, Miami wasn't done watching.
The real kings hadn't shown their faces yet.
And they were smiling in the dark.
___