I turned.
Marcello barreled toward us like a demon in a burning cathedral, his jaw clenched, pistol raised, eyes blazing with murder and adrenaline.Alessio was right behind him, firing controlled shots into the guards flanking the bar as he moved.
For a split second, I just stopped.
What the fuck were they doing here?
“What the hell?”
Marcello shouldered a half-conscious guard out of his way and strode straight to me.
“Gianni called.Told me you were neck-deep in shit and needed men you actually trust.”
Alessio reached us, chest heaving, gun already reloaded.
“Next time, brother, do us a favor and don’t start a damn war without giving us a heads-up.”
I stared at them.Relief hit so hard it felt like a punch to the chest.
Marcello clapped a hand to my shoulder.“You good?”
“No.”I shook my head once.“But you’re here.That’s enough.”
Gianni flashed a breathless grin.“Told you I’d bring backup.”
“Let’s go,” I snapped.“She’s behind the stage.”
And just like that, we moved.
Four men with one purpose.In one direction.On one mission.
The smoke thickened around us as we sprinted, painting the corridor in a sickly orange glow.Every breath burned.Fire crawled inside the walls, crackling, hungry, alive.
A guard burst out of a storage room.Marcello didn’t slow—he put a bullet through the man’s skull and kept running, blood misting across his cheek like war paint.
We hit the backstage corridor.
Bodies littered the floor.Some twitched.Some didn’t.Blood slicked the tiles.Screams echoed.A woman sobbed behind a curtain.
Alessio kicked open the first door.“Clear.”
I shoved open the next.Empty.
Another explosion rocked the ceiling.Beams groaned.Flames chewed through the joists.
The club was dying.
And she was still inside it.
“We find her,” I grated, vision tunneling with rage.“Or we all burn trying.”
We pushed deeper into hell.
Then I heard it.
A muffled cry.
My head snapped toward the final door at the end of the corridor—the only one not checked yet.My pulse spiked.