And now Sophie—another woman in the crosshairs because of the Ricci name, because of secrets and power and bloodlines.
Not this time.
"Get her out of here," I ordered Mateo, cutting through the zip ties binding her wrists and ankles.
"Vittorio," she mumbled, her voice barely audible. "Jonah… Falco killed him…"
I glanced down at the dead traitor. Jonah—twenty-three years old, two years on my security team, until he sold us out. At least Falco had saved me the trouble of executing him myself.
"Where's Falco?" I demanded, checking Sophie for serious injuries.
A slow clap echoed from the shadows at the far end of the room. "Bravo, Ricci. You made it farther than I expected."
Gianni Falco stepped into the light, a Desert Eagle held casually at his side. His gaudy gold chains gleamed against his silk shirt, his face split in a predatory grin.
"Mateo, get Sophie out. Now." I kept my voice level, my eyes locked on Falco.
"But boss—"
"Now."
Mateo lifted Sophie into his arms. She protested weakly, reaching for me as he carried her toward the exit.
"Let them go," I told Falco, raising my Glock. "This is between us."
Falco laughed. "You know, Vittorio, I've always admired your sense of… theater." He gestured with his free hand. "The loyal soldiers, the dramatic rescue. Very cinematic."
"You're outgunned and surrounded," I said. "My men have secured the perimeter. There's no way out."
"Perhaps." He shrugged. "But I've accomplished what I set out to do. I wanted to see the great Vittorio Ricci brought to his knees. And here you are—the mighty Underboss, risking everything for a woman."
I tightened my grip on my weapon. "You've made your last mistake, Gianni."
"Have I?" He smirked. "Tell me, what was your plan? Kill me, take the girl, and go back to business as usual? Did you think Antonio would just forget about her? About what she knows?"
"Antonio is my problem."
"Antonio is everyone's problem," Falco countered. "But the girl—she's power. Whoever controls her controls the future of the Ricci empire."
He raised his weapon, but I was already moving. I fired twice, diving behind a metal desk as his return shot sparked across the concrete where I'd stood.
"You're slipping, Vittorio!" he called. "Time was, you wouldn't risk everything for a piece of ass!"
I counted his footsteps, tracking his movement through the room. He was circling left, trying to flank me.
"What did she do to you, eh?" he taunted. "Must be something special to make the ice prince melt."
I remained silent, conserving ammunition, waiting for my opening.
"Maybe I should have sampled the goods myself before you arrived," he continued. "Learned what all the fuss was about."
White-hot rage flooded my system. I forced it down, channeling it into cold precision. Emotion gets you killed. Calculation keeps you alive.
I heard him reload—the distinctive click of a fresh magazine. That was my chance.
I exploded from behind my cover, firing three shots in rapid succession. The first caught him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. The second tore through his chest. The third—center mass—knocked him backward onto the concrete.
Falco gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as I approached. His Desert Eagle lay just beyond his outstretched fingers.
