Isla. Separated from Leo, alone in the dark. Terror clawed at my chest, but I forced it down. Emotions were a liability in combat.
"How many hostiles total?"
"Best estimate? Fifteen to twenty. They're concentrated on the first floor and the roof. The second floor where the boy is has lighter security—probably banking on us not knowing the location."
I studied the layout, calculating angles and timing. "We split into three teams. Dmitri's group takes the east entrance and creates a distraction. Marco, you take your team through the south—that puts you closest to the basement. I'll take the north stairwell to the second floor."
"Boss, that puts you alone—"
"I'm not alone." I gestured to the two men in the second vehicle. "They're with me. We move fast, silent. Extract the boy first, then the woman. Anyone who gets in the way—"
"Doesn't get up," Marco finished. "I know."
I pulled out my phone and sent a group text to all team leaders:Fifteen minutes. Silent approach until first shot is fired. After that, it's open season.
Responses came back immediately. Everyone was ready.
I checked my Glock one final time, the weight of it grounding me. I'd killed my first man at seventeen—a rival's soldier who'd pulled a knife outside a Queens nightclub. My father had called it my baptism into the family business.
Tonight would be different. Tonight, I wasn't killing for power or territory or respect.
Tonight, I would kill to get my family back.
I looked at Marco. "If something goes wrong, if I go down, you get them out. That's your only priority."
"Nothing's going wrong," Marco said firmly. "You hear me? We're getting them both out, and then we're putting Matteo in the ground where he belongs."
I nodded, pulling on tactical gloves. Through the warehouse windows, I could see shadows moving. Matteo's men, thinking they were safe. Thinking they'd won.
They hadn't won.
They'd just signed their death warrants.
My phone buzzed one last time. Dmitri:In position. On your signal.
I typed back:Go.
Then I stepped out of the SUV and moved toward the warehouse, my team falling in behind me like shadows. The night air was cold against my face, carrying the smell of salt water and industrial decay.
Somewhere in that building, my son waited. Scared, alone, calling for his mother and father.
I was coming.
And God help anyone who tried to stop me.
CHAPTER 18
Isla
Time had no meaning in the darkness.
I'd counted my breaths, trying to estimate hours passing, but kept losing track. The concrete floor had long since leeched all warmth from my body, leaving me shivering despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
The makeshift weapon—the broken chair back with its jagged metal edge—sat hidden against the wall where I'd positioned it. Close enough to grab. Sharp enough to do damage if I got the chance.
But the chance hadn't come.
The guard who'd thrown me the phone hadn't returned. No one had. Just silence broken occasionally by distant footsteps, muffled voices, the creak of an old building settling.
