Movement catches my eye.
A flash of motion at the base of the tower. The garage gate lifts just enough to let a car peel out, tires shrieking softly as it cuts into the street.
I straighten.
Then I see him.
Georg Pavlov. My target. Thepezzo di merdawho’s been infringing on my territory, according to Nico’s intel.
Anton may belong to Matteo, but he’s crazy if he thinks I’ll let him take my prey too.
The youngest of the Pavlov brothers is unmistakable even at a distance—too rigid, too controlled, moving like someone who expects the world to part for him. He breaks into a run toward the car waiting at the curb, coat flaring behind him.
I’m already moving.
I vault the gap between rooftops, boots skidding slightly on gravel as I land, then take the stairs two at a time. By the time I reach street level, the car door is swinging open.
“Stop,” I call.
He turns just as I draw.
Gunfire cracks the air. Loud. Close. A chaos of echoes between buildings.
I duck behind a concrete pillar as bullets chew into stone, then lean out and fire back. Glass shatters somewhere above us. A scream follows.
Georg dives for the driver’s side.
I track him through the sights, steadying my breath, finger tightening on the trigger.
Then he moves aside.
And the man in my crosshairs isn’t Georg.
It’s him.
My second.
Lorenzo.
Time stretches.
I see it all at once—the familiar set of his shoulders, the way he pivots to cover Georg’s escape without thinking. He looks older. Leaner. But it’s him.
My finger freezes.
One shot. That’s all it would take.
The car roars to life.
I lower the gun.
The moment passes. The vehicle fishtails into traffic and vanishes down the street, leaving only the echo of engines and my own pulse in my ears.
I swear softly and pull out my phone, snapping a photo of the license plate before it disappears completely.
That will have to be enough.
By the time I get home, the sky is darkening at the edges, and Matteo’s text has brought me at least one piece of good news.
