LUCA
Pier 19 looms ahead of us, and it takes everything in me to stamp down the memories that are rising up like a flood.
The warehouse looks exactly as it did three years ago when I found Marco’s body, with its rusted metal siding and broken windows, the kind of industrial decay that Chicago’s waterfront wears like a badge of honor. Water laps against the concrete pilings below, and the smell of the lake mixes with motor oil and rust.
Behind me, an army assembles in the shadows.
Danny is checking weapons, his massive frame moving with practiced ease as he distributes ammunition and body armor to our men. Viktor stands beside his own crew. He brought twenty of his best soldiers, all heavily armed and ready for war. My own organization has mobilized every available fighter. We have forty men, maybe more, all converging on this single point.
Romano wanted me to come alone. He wanted me desperate and exhausted, walking into his trap like Marco did three years ago.
Fuckthat.
“Thermal imaging shows approximately fifteen hostiles inside,” Viktor says, studying a tablet one of his tech guys is holding. His narrow face is illuminated by the glow of the screen. “They’re positioned in a defensive perimeter around a central point. That’s probably where they’re keeping her.”
“How do you want to play this, boss?” Danny asks, and I can feel his eyes boring into me. I can’t necessarily blame him. I haven’t slept in a little north of forty-eight hours. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. But every time my body tries to get me to go to sleep, my thoughts keep dissolving into images of Gigi hurt, dying, gone.
I force myself to think logically. I need to be the leader these men need instead of the terrified husband threatening to tear me apart from the inside.
“Three teams,” I say. “Viktor, take your men around the north entrance. Danny, you’re south. I go in the main entrance with ten of our best. We hit them simultaneously from all sides. Fast, brutal, overwhelming force.”
“They know we’re coming,” Viktor warns. “Romano’s been expecting this. His men will be alert and ready.”
“Good.” I pat my fully loaded gun and feel the weight of the knife at my ankle, the backup weapon in my jacket. “Then I’ll fuck them up like they deserve.”
We move into position like a military operation, which in a way it is. This isn’t a raid—it’s an invasion. This warehouse is about to become a war zone, and I’m bringing enough firepower to level the fucking building if that’s what it takes.
At my signal, all three teams hit the entrances simultaneously.
The doors explode inward from breaching charges, and we’re through before Romano’s men can fully react. They’re alert, yes, guns already drawn, taking positions. But they weren’t ready for this level of assault.
Haha fuckers.
Gunfire erupts immediately. My men move brilliantly, using the massive support columns for cover, advancing in pairs while providing suppressive fire. I’m moving forward, gun up, targeting anyone in my path. A guard appears from behind a stack of crates, and I put two rounds in his chest before he can get a shot off.
A smarter one is using the high ground from a catwalk. Danny takes him out with a rifle shot that echoes through the warehouse like thunder.
“Gigi!” I roar her name, rage and fear mixing in equal measure as I scan the vast space. I try to ignore the flashbacks of the last time I was here. When I discovered Marco’s body. “Gigi!”
Romano’s men are trying to hold their positions, but they’re being hit from three directions at once and my people are better trained, better equipped, and fueled by three years of hunting the man who killed Marco. We’re here to fuck shit up and kill a bunch of bastards.
A guard breaks cover, running toward what looks like a central area. I sprint after him, vaulting over debris, my shoulder screaming from the effort. He turns, fires—the bullet grazes my arm, hot and burning—but I don’t stop.
I tackle him before he can fire again, and we go down hard. My fist connects with his face once, twice, three times until he stops moving. I grab his radio, his weapon, and keep moving.
The warehouse opens up into a larger space, and there?—
My heart stops completely.
Gigi.
She’s on a cot in the center of the room, wrists zip-tied to the metal frame, but she’s conscious. Alive. Her face is pale, too pale, and there’s blood on her shirt. But its not fresh blood, nor the spreading stain of active bleeding. Bandages wrap her chest where Romano shot her, and her eyes?—
Her eyes find mine across the chaos, and the relief that floods her face makes me want to break down crying.
“Luca,” she breathes. At the sound of her voice, I’m running again.
I’m across that space in seconds, dropping to my knees beside the cot, my hands shaking so badly I can barely reach for her. “Gigi. Fuck, Gigi, are you—” The words won’t come. I can’t form coherent thoughts past the overwhelming need to touch her, to make sure she’s real and that she’s here.
