The ground trembled under the growl of approaching engines.Marco’s gaze met mine.
“Showtime.”
We walked toward the front of the warehouse, but then gunfire split the night and our guy at the door fell to the ground.A red puddle around him.So much for this being a simple business deal.
“What the fuck?I thought they were here to buy?”I ducked behind a stack of crates, dragging Marco down with me.I leaned out and fired twice.The first shot went wide, the second caught between the eyes.He dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.Another flash flared at the far end of the loading bay.
We moved as one—years of training written into muscle memory.Cover.Flank.Advance.My father made sure to prepare us for situations like this.
“Don’t fucking let them get away!”I barked.
A memory flashed—my father shouting those same words years ago over the body of a man who’d betrayed him.Every war I’d ever fought started like this: chaos, smoke, betrayal.The Di Fiore legacy wasn’t a family name—it was a sentence.I’d been killing since I was sixteen, and even now, when I wanted something different, but peace never came without a price.
I slid across the floor, shoulder brushing rough concrete, fired twice.Two silhouettes folded backward.Another charged from behind a pallet, screaming.I pivoted, dropped my stance, fired once.Clean recoil.Final.
Marco shouted something and then a second volley tore through the crates beside me, shredding wood.I rolled behind a forklift and reloaded.
“I’ve got right!”
I peeked, squeezed off another round.The target fell, twisting into the shadow of a forklift tire.
“Enrico!”Marco’s voice carried over the chaos.“They’re herding us!”
He was right.Whoever they were, they weren’t amateurs.They wanted us cornered.
A cold thought sliced through the noise: Mia.
If this was a setup then they might go after her too.First rule of my world: always go after the people they love to hit them where it hurts.
Marco stepped into view, fired and took out two men trying to flank from the left bay door.
“Status?”I called.
Marco’s silhouette moved through the haze.“Clear.For now.”
The warehouse was a wreck—crates torn apart, a forklift half-tilted, bullet casings glittering like brass confetti across the floor.
The weight of every kill pressed in on me.The noise in my head wouldn’t stop.This had shaped me—this reflex, this hunger, this curse.
I pulled out my phone with hands still shaking from adrenaline.Signal dead.
“She’ll be fine,” Marco said, reading my silence.
I holstered my weapon, stepped over the nearest body, and glanced toward the bay doors that stood half open to the night.
“Some escaped,” I muttered.Tire tracks scarred the dirt near the loading bay.
Marco swore under his breath.“Then we hunt them.”
My gaze swept the debris until movement—two men bound against the far wall.I crossed the floor, my footsteps loud in the settling quiet.“Let’s find out who sent them.”
He hauled one upright by the collar.“Who are you working for?”
Silence.
I drew my knife, its edge catching the fractured light.“Perhaps you didn’t hear my brother.We can make this easy—or we can make it excruciating.”
The man flinched.“Okay!Okay!I don’t know who’s at the top!”
