A Dragoni SUV rockets into view and T-bones the car on our left with catastrophic force.
Metal screams.
The vehicle lifts, flips, tumbles end over end down the street like a toy kicked by a god, glass and smoke exploding outward as it rolls.
One threat neutralised. But one remains.
The SUV on the right revs, engine snarling, men already moving to reposition.
Lucia’s pressed against my legs now, small and furious and breathing fast, her hands clutching my thighs like she’s anchoring herself to me. More shots spiderweb the glass and she flinches, going paler.
A thought hits me like a blade, cutting deep. Maybe I should have left her on the island.
It’s there and gone in an instant, swallowed by rage, by fear, by the knowledge that there is no world where I would ever choose distance over her again.
My hand finds her head instinctively, fingers threading briefly through her hair, a touch too intimate for a moment like this and yet unavoidable.
She looks up at me from the footwell.
A long, fierce look, punctured with alarm, then resignation.
She knows what I’m about to do. Knows she cannot stop me.
A fierce sparkle lights her eyes, sharpened by a hint of tears. But she blinks it away fast.
“We’re not done tussling. So don’t fucking die,” she whispers, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep.
I bare my teeth. “Don’t plan to,dragunidda,” I rasp back.
Then I’m gone.
The door flies open and the street hits me like a slap: salt air, oil, gunpowder, the sharp metallic tang of violence.
I assess in one heartbeat.
Then I fire without hesitation, taking out the nearest shadow before he finishes raising his gun. Another one goes down screaming as my driver returns fire from behind the car.
The rest of Bellandi’s men take cover behind their vehicles, two on the far side, one crouched low with another armour-piercing rifle.
They expected me to stay trapped. They forgot what I am.
Feral focus locks in and I raise the MP5K and fire.
Controlled bursts.
Accurate.
The first man jerks back, red blooming across his chest. The second tries to move and doesn’t get the chance.
My men are with me now, returning fire from behind our SUV, the street erupting into chaos as bullets chew through metal and concrete alike.
Engines hiss as steam pours from ruptured radiators and blood slicks the asphalt in dark, obscene ribbons.
A round grazes my shoulder: hot, sharp, but not deep enough to slow me. Not today. Not when she’s in that car.
Bellandi thought he could touch what’s mine. He’s just signed his death warrant.
I snarl as another shooter appears at the mouth of the alley.
