My ribs blaze. I grit my teeth, counting every blow, every insult, every drop of blood. I ignore the taunts, the threats. I wait.
Vittorio steps forward, crouching so we’re eye to eye. “You know what I’ll enjoy most? Watching her die. She is not my niece anymore. She is nothing to me but a stain to be wiped away. A reminder that Russians don’t win here.”
That’s what I’ve been waiting for. The guard behind me relaxes, assuming I’m finished. Vittorio’s face is close, too close, and I feel the shift in the air, the arrogance of a man who thinks the world is already his.
I move fast.
The blade I’d palmed hours ago—a sliver of sharpened metal, lifted from a careless guard’s pocket—slides into my palm. I twist, slicing through the last of the wire at my wrists.
My arms scream in protest, numb and bloody, but I don’t hesitate. I surge upward, ramming the blade into Vittorio’s side. He gasps, eyes wide, hands clutching at his ribs as blood spreads dark and hot across his shirt.
Chaos explodes. The guard lurches forward, but I’m already moving, chair splintering as I wrench free. I drive my shoulder into his gut, sending him sprawling. The second guardshouts, fumbling for his gun, but I grab the first weapon I see—a battered Glock, still warm from someone’s hand—and level it at the room.
Vittorio stumbles, clutching his wound, eyes wild with shock. I stare at him, breathing hard, rage and triumph burning through every bruise.
“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” I growl.
Gunfire explodes in the corridor, sharp and deafening, echoing off the stained concrete. Vittorio sags to the floor, blood gushing through his trembling fingers, his face already ashen. I barely have time to wipe his blood from my blade before the next threat bursts through the door.
Matteo storms in, gun drawn, his face twisted with grief and rage. He stares at his father’s dying body, eyes wild, teeth bared.
Behind him, a handful of Bruno men fan out, weapons raised. The second Matteo registers the scene—the blood, Vittorio slumped over, me standing with a gun in my hand—something primal flashes across his features.
“Bastard!” Matteo spits, raising his weapon at me, finger white on the trigger. “You killed him!”
My own gun comes up, and for a moment, we’re locked in a stand-off, both of us trembling, half dead, neither of us willing to blink first. My body aches with every heartbeat. I’m bleeding, dizzy, skin slick with sweat and old pain, but adrenaline surges through me, sharper than the fear.
Matteo advances, jaw clenched, knuckles pale around the grip of his pistol. “I should have shot you when I had thechance,” he snarls, voice shaking. “He was my father. You took everything from us.”
“Your father took plenty from me,” I manage, voice raw, breath ragged. “He made this choice.”
Before he can answer, shouts erupt outside—a different language, rougher, urgent. I recognize the cadence, the unmistakable accent of home. Russian.
Gunfire rips through the hall. The first Bruno man drops before he can turn, bullets tearing through his chest. Glass shatters, boots hammer against the tile, and suddenly the room fills with chaos.
Lukyan and Dimitri burst in, faces grim and guns blazing. Behind them, more of my men pour through the door, mowing down the Italians with merciless efficiency.
“Down!” Lukyan bellows, voice hoarse and commanding.
He shoulders his rifle, mowing down another guard who tries to rush him. Blood splatters the wall, painting arcs of red across the faded wallpaper.
Dimitri moves with surgical precision, head low, firing short, controlled bursts. Two more Italians fall, screaming as they clutch uselessly at their wounds. The air stinks of gunpowder and burning fabric.
Matteo spins, returning fire. The boom of his pistol is deafening, but he’s already outnumbered, outgunned.
Lukyan’s men fan out, corralling the survivors into the corners, rifles leveled. The last Bruno guard tries to crawl behind a desk, but a Russian stomps on his hand and rips the weapon away.
The screams, the thunder of bullets, the crackle of glass and wood—chaos swallows the room. I keep my back to the wall, fighting to stay upright.
Blood trickles down my wrist, cut by the wire that had bound me, every muscle shaking with exhaustion.
Lukyan shouts something in Russian, ordering the last men to surrender. The Bruno survivors drop their weapons, hands raised, eyes wide and terrified.
It’s over in seconds, though it feels like a year. Silence slams down. Smoke drifts in curling threads, painting the carnage in ghostly wisps. The bodies of the Italian guards litter the ground, blood pooling on the floorboards.
Only Matteo is left standing, gun wavering, chest heaving. He glances at his father’s corpse, and I see the devastation crumple his features. For a heartbeat, he looks young, lost—just a boy who’s watched his world die in a hail of bullets.
He drops his weapon. It clatters to the floor and skids beneath a fallen chair. He drops to his knees beside Vittorio, hands shaking as he touches his father’s shoulder, as if the weight of his grief might raise the dead.
