When Matteo, Dante’s brother Ginio, and I walked into the clearing between the towering stacks of metal crates, the Bratvadidn't even bother with a greeting. Two heavy transport trucks suddenly lurched from the shadows, blocking the only exit route to the main road. The doors flew open, and a dozen armed Russians poured out, their assault rifles raised.
They expected us to panic. They expected to pin the Vellutini Don against the churning black water of the bay and execute me.
They didn't look up.
Before the first Russian could even chamber a round, the night sky split open. The four counter-snipers I stationed on the massive loading cranes two hours ago squeezed their triggers in unison.
The heads of the Bratva lieutenants practically evaporated in a mist of crimson and gray.
Chaos erupted. I stepped out from the container, firing methodically with my left hand, putting three hollow-point rounds into the chest of a mercenary charging my position. Matteo laid down a punishing barrage of suppressing fire with his M4, chewing through the rusted metal doors of the transport trucks.
It was a massacre. Within four minutes, the concrete dock was littered with twelve bleeding corpses.
But as the echoes of the gunfire faded into the storm, a suffocating, icy dread settled heavy in my stomach.
I walk over to the last surviving Russian. He is slumped against the tire of a transport truck, coughing up thick blood, a bullet lodged deep in his gut. I grab him by the collar of his tactical vest, hauling him forward.
"Where is Volkov?" I demand. "Where is the Pakhan?"
The mercenary spits a mouthful of blood onto my boots. He smiles, his teeth stained red. "The Pakhan is not here, Italian. He is collecting your bride."
The words hit me like a wrecking ball to the spine.
"A diversion," Matteo breathes, lowering his rifle, his eyes widening in horror as he looks at me. "Boss, they only sent a skeleton crew. They sent the main force to the estate."
I drop the dying man. I don't bother finishing him off. I spin around, sprinting toward the armored and brand-new Maybach we parked on the edge of the pier. Every step sends an agonizing spike of pain through my torn chest, but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything except a blind, all-consuming panic.
If I don't come back, burn it all down.I left her. I walked out of that study, leaving my wife like a sitting duck in a house about to be besieged by an army.
"Drive!" I scream at Ginio the second I throw myself into the backseat. "Get me home right fucking now!"
The car tears out of the port, the tires hydroplaning over the slick asphalt. We blast through red lights, dodging oncoming traffic with inches to spare. I stare out the windshield, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs.
I am a man who calculates every variable. I build empires. I anticipate betrayals. But right now, my brilliant, strategic mind is completely blank, replaced by a singular, frantic chant.
Please. Please. Please.
If she is dead, I will end the world. I will slaughter Volkov, I will gut Dario Lombardi, and then I will put my own gun to my temple because I refuse to exist in a universe where she is gone.
We take the final turn toward the cliffside. Smoke is billowing into the stormy sky, thick and gray, rising from the direction of my compound.
"The gates are blown," Matteo says, his voice sounds hollow.
The massive iron barriers of the Vellutini estate are twisted and blackened, blown off their hinges. Dante’s men are swarming the driveway, their weapons drawn, securing the perimeter. Ginio slams on the brakes, the Maybach skidding to a halt near the marble steps of the main entrance.
I kick my door open before the vehicle even stops moving.
I stumble up the steps, my boots crunching over shattered stone and glass. I walk through the ruined front doors, and the sight of the grand foyer makes my breath stall completely in my lungs.
It is a warzone. The air is choked with plaster dust and the bitter stench of sulfur. The beautiful glass staircase has been obliterated, a massive crater blown into its base, leaving only jagged, smoking splinters hanging from the second-floor landing. Bodies in Bratva tactical gear are scattered across the blood-soaked marble.
"Noemi!" I roar, the sound tearing my throat apart. The panic is a living, breathing beast clawing its way out of my chest. "Noemi!"
"Boss!" Dante’s voice calls out from the second floor.
I look up.
Through the haze of smoke and dust, standing at the edge of the ruined balcony, is my wife.