“Breach in thirty seconds,” I murmur into comms.“On my mark.”
I count down in my head, watching the guards, timing their movements.Twenty seconds.Fifteen.Ten.
“Mark.”
Ray kicks in the service entrance door.Flash-bangs detonate somewhere in the house’s interior.Tommy’s team is hitting the barracks.Gunfire erupts from multiple directions as the compound’s careful security dissolves into pandemonium.
I move through the chaos like water through cracks, my weapon up, scanning for threats.Two guards round a corner and drop before they can raise their weapons.I take a third who emerges from a side room.We clear the kitchen, the study, the formal living room where Giovanni probably entertained his sick guests.
“Main staircase clear,” Ray reports.“Moving to second floor.”
More gunfire from outside.Charlie team is engaging runners trying to reach the helicopter pad.Pierce’s people must have disabled the aircraft, because I don’t hear rotors spinning up.
We take the stairs two at a time.The second floor is a maze of bedrooms and private suites.Doors splinter under tactical boots.Clear.Clear.Clear.
Then I hear it.I’d recognize Cesare’s voice anywhere.Cold, cultured, with that slight Italian accent that makes my skin crawl.“These stupid Irish mongrels think they can?—”
I kick in the door to the master suite.
Giovanni DiLorenzo stands by the window, a gun in his hand, his silver hair disheveled and his green eyes wild with fury.He’s aged badly in these past few hours.The stress of being hunted has carved new lines into his face.
And beside him, Cesare Dellamare.The monster who dared touch my wife.Cesare looks me straight in the eyes and raises his weapon.
I’m faster.
The first two hollow-point rounds shred Cesare’s crotch.He falls to his knees, wailing.The third catches him in the lower abdomen, punching through whatever body armor he’s wearing.He staggers backward, mouth opening in shock, blood blooming across his designer shirt.
But I’m not done.Not even close.
I'm on him in two strides, knocking the gun from his weakening grip.He tries to speak, but I grab his throat and slam him against the wall.
“This is for Serena,” I growl.“For every second you touched her.For every threat you made.”
His eyes bulge.His hands claw at my grip.I feel his pulse hammering against my palm, feel the life draining out of him with each passing second.With my free hand, I unsheath my knife.
“Shelby.”Dave’s voice cuts through the red haze.“We need him alive for the trial.”
“No.”The word is final.Absolute.“We don’t.”
I slit Cesare’s throat from ear to ear.His whole body convulses.Blood pours over my hand, hot and dark.I hold his gaze as the light fades from those empty eyes, watching the moment death claims him.
Serena will never have to fear him again.
I let the body drop and turn to Giovanni.
He hasn’t moved.One of the men has taken the gun from his hand.His face has turned gray with shock.Whatever fight he had in him died when he watched me kill his partner.
“Giovanni DiLorenzo.”Dave steps forward, his voice carrying the formal weight of Syndicate authority.“You’re charged with violations of the founding codes.Human trafficking.Conspiracy.Betrayal of the alliance.”He pauses.“You’ll face judgment before the founders.”
“You can’t do this.”Giovanni’s voice is a rasp.“I’m a founding member.I have rights and protections?—”
“You had them,” I correct him, my blood still singing with adrenaline and grim satisfaction.“You forfeited them when you bought and sold children.”
Ray moves in with zip ties, securing Giovanni’s wrists behind his back.The man who once commanded respect across three continents looks small now.Diminished.Just an old man facing the consequences of his sins.
I look at Cesare’s body, crumpled against the wall like a broken puppet, blood pooling beneath him.
Everyone you love ends up hurt.
