Through the curtain of blood streaming from my eye, I see figures moving in the distance. Not my men. Someone else. Shadows against flame, approaching with the unhurried confidence of those who set the trap and know their prey is caught.
This was planned. The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity. Not random. Not an accident. Someone wanted me dead.
With a painful grunt, I reach for my gun, but my holster is empty. Lost in the blast or torn away, it doesn’t matter. I’m defenseless, broken, bleeding out on concrete that grows slick with my blood.
The pain recedes slightly, which I recognize as another bad sign. My body is preparing to shut down. Not like this. Not by some anonymous fucking bomb.
Russos don’t die in the shadows.
I drag myself backward, each movement sending fresh agony through my body. Glass and metal bite into my palms. My left leg doesn’t respond properly—something’s torn or broken.
The approaching figures come closer, their faces hidden by the stark contrast of firelight behind them. Three, maybe four. I count the seconds between heartbeats, measuring how long I have left. Not long enough.
A car engine roars to life somewhere beyond the flames.
Another explosion, smaller this time. But the heat is unbearable, blistering my exposed skin, cooking me alive.
I laugh, though it comes out as a wet, broken sound. Death by fire. My parents would appreciate the symmetry.
The flames reflect in the pools of blood spreading around me, turning them into mirrors of Hell. I should be afraid, but all I feel is rage—pure, undiluted rage that someone dared to think they could erase me.
If I survive this, I’ll find them. I’ll burn their world to ashes and make them watch before I put them in the ground.
Darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision. The pain becomes distant, theoretical. I’m cold now, despite the inferno surrounding me. My good eye fixes on the flames consuming what’s left of my life, and in their dance, I see patterns, secrets, promises.
The fire whispers to me as consciousness slips away, and I could swear it speaks my name.
“Matteo,” it whispers. “Join us.”
Someone’s roaring in pain and… wait, is that me? Am I even here?
I jerk awake beneath fire. Not metaphorical—actual fucking fire, licking at metal twisted above me like a grotesque canopy.
My left eye won’t open, sealed shut with something wet and sticky. Pain pulses everywhere at once, a symphony of agony that makes it impossible to locate any single wound. I’m pinned under something heavy as smoke fills my lungs with each desperate gasp.
Not dead yet, then. Disappointment to whoever planned this little party.
I push against the weight on my chest. It barely moves. I try again, muscles screaming, and gain maybe an inch. Enough to wriggle sideways, dragging myself through glass and debris.
My shirt sticks to my skin, fused by heat. When I move, it tears away, taking layers of flesh with it. I don’t scream. Won’t give them the satisfaction, whoever they are.
The world tilts, straightens, tilts again as I claw my way from beneath the twisted metal. Each movement is a negotiation withpain. Each breath tastes of ash and copper. I drag myself across shattered concrete, leaving a trail of blood behind me like a signature.
Through the billowing smoke, shapes emerge—two figures moving toward the wreckage. I recognize them even through my damaged vision. Rafe’s broad shoulders, Remus’s controlled stride.
Family.
“Jesus Christ… Matteo!” Rafe reaches me first, his face contorting as he takes in my condition. “Don’t move, don’t… fuck.”
Remus appears beside him, his expression carved from stone. Only his eyes betray his rage, burning hotter than the surrounding flames.
He barks something at his brother, but I’m too far gone to make out the words.
As they lift me between them, I finally scream. The intense pain is too exquisite, too bright to ignore.
“Stay with us,” Rafe demands, his voice distant through the ringing in my ears. “Don’t you fucking die on us. You owe me, fucker. And I won’t let a minor injury get in the way of collecting my debt. Do you hear me? Do you fucking hear me, Matteo? You. Fucking. Owe. Me.”
I want to tell him Russos don’t die easily, but my mouth won’t form the words. Instead, I focus on the next breath. Just one more. Then another.
