Don Vittorio Mancini. Head of the Florence organization. The man who ordered my death.
He walks into the restaurant like he owns it. Confident. Comfortable.
He has no idea what's coming.
"Target one inside," Elio reports.
"Copy," I say quietly.
We wait.
Nine-oh-seven. A second car arrives. One of the lieutenants: Carlo Benedetti. I studied his photo. Mid-forties, handles their drug operations.
"Target two inside."
Nine-eleven. The third lieutenant.
"Target three inside."
Nine-fifteen. The last one. Giovanni Russo. He runs their enforcement. The one who probably gave the order to Dante.
"Target four inside," Elio says. "All targets present. All security in position."
I look at Ciro. He nods back.
This is it.
"All units, this is a go," I say into the radio. "Move on my signal. Wait for confirmation that they're seated."
"Copy."
"Copy."
We wait five more minutes. Long enough for them to order drinks, to settle in, to feel safe.
Elio's voice comes through: "They're at the table. Back corner. All four targets together."
Perfect.
"Execute," I say.
The vans move simultaneously. We pull up near the restaurant. The other teams position at the side and rear entrances. Six men total. All of us armed. All of us knowing exactly what we're here to do.
Ciro and I get out first. We're going in the front, the bold approach. The one that sends a message.
Two of Vittorio's guards are outside. They see us approaching and tense, hands moving toward their weapons.
They don't get the chance to draw.
Elio and Paolo come from behind. Silenced shots. Both guards drop. We step over them and push through the front door.
The restaurant is upscale. Low lighting. White tablecloths. Maybe twenty tables, half of them occupied. Couples eating dinner, completely unaware that anything is wrong.
And there, in the back corner booth, are our targets.
Four men. Drinks in hand. But they're not eating. Not talking. Not relaxed.
They're waiting. Looking right at us.
