The next two hours are agony, each minute crawling by like an hour.
We plan. We strategize. We go over every possible scenario, every contingency.
Dominic's men will be nearby—not close enough for the Benedettis to spot, but close enough to move fast if things go wrong. A perimeter, not an assault team.
My crew protests loudly. They want to come with me, want backup inside the building. I refuse every suggestion.
This is between me and Roberto Benedetti. This is my mistake to fix.
At ten thirty, I get ready, checking my weapons. Gun in my shoulder holster. Another at the small of my back. Knife in my boot.
"You walk in there and they'll search you," Bruno says, watching me prepare. "They’ll take all of it. You'll be unarmed. Surrounded. Outnumbered."
"I know."
"This is insane. Suicidal."
"It's Liana." I look at him directly. "What else can I do?"
He doesn't answer, because we both know there's no other choice. At ten forty-five, I head to the port, driving through the empty streets. The drive feels endless, time stretching impossibly. Every red light an eternity. Every turn taking me closer to whatever's waiting.
I keep seeing her face in that photo they sent—scared, hurt, alone, waiting for help that didn't come.
Because of me. All of this is because of me.
I park outside Warehouse Twelve at exactly 10:58.
The building looms above me—dark, massive, one of the older structures at the port that should have been condemned years ago. I can see light filtering through the windows on the second floor, yellow and flickering.
They're up there. Waiting for me.
I take a deep breath, forcing my racing heart to slow. Check my phone one last time.
A text from Bruno: We're in position. Give the signal and we move.
I type back: Not unless I signal. No matter what you hear.
Then I pocket my phone and walk toward the entrance. The door is unlocked, opening with a groan of rusted hinges. Inside, it's dark and smells like rust and old machinery and decay.
"Marcello!" A voice echoes from somewhere above me. "Second floor. Take the stairs."
I find the staircase easily—metal, industrial, each step clanging under my boots like a bell announcing my arrival.
At the top, two men wait for me. Young, heavily armed, nervous energy radiating off them.
"Hands up," one of them orders.
I raise my hands slowly, making no sudden movements. They search me thoroughly. Find both guns and the knife.
"He's clean," one calls out to someone I can't see.
"Send him in," the voice responds.
They push me toward a door. It opens into a large open space that must have once been the warehouse office.
The space has been converted into something else. There's a table in the center. Chairs arranged around it. Lights rigged from the ceiling, creating harsh shadows.
And standing in the center, surrounded by four armed men positioned strategically, is Roberto Benedetti.
