I cut down a side street, then another, forcing speed out of my legs, until my breath comes ragged.
He shouts, his voice ripping through the street.
"Fèrmiti, Eliano!"(Stop, Eliano!)
The voice literally rams me. Being an alpha lets me hear, even from thirty feet, the sharp snap of a firearm being readied. I cannot outrun what comes next.
My eyes snag on the storefront to my right, and I catch sight of samurai armor standing rigid behind the pane; a kendo sword mounted beside it feels like a gift from Fate. Does Fate really give me a chance? I veer hard, crash through the door, and the bell shrieks overhead.
The gunshot detonates behind me, glass exploding outward as the bullet goes wide. The sound fills the shop, rattles my skull. But I do not slow. My hand closes around the sword. My body remembers what to do and how, as I turn just as Rocco storms inside after me.
He comes around the corner fast. I move in a split second, on instinct, snapping the tip of the blade down and across, feeling the jolt travel up my arms as his gun flies from his hand and skids across the floor. He does not even swear at the sharp jerk. Yeah, Ferros don’t scream.
He dives behind the counter, rolling low and fast, and I chase him around the display, heart slamming, until he yanks another sword from the wall.
The shop comes apart around us. Shelves tip, glass shatters, and the owner’s scream cuts through everything before he bolts for the door, abandoning the place to the crash of steel and splintering wood.
Rocco straightens with the sword raised, eyes locked on me. His mouth twists, and the word comes out pure venom.
"Tradituri!"(Traitor!)
And bam, we clash.
Steel slams into steel, the impact punching through my arms as sparks scatter across the floor. His swings are brutal, meant to batter straight through my guard, and every block carries a weight that forces my stance to give or break. I feel the difference immediately. Rocco is ten years older; his strength has had more time to develop through training in various martial arts, and when I mistime a parry, the shock rattles my shoulders clear down to my spine.
But I won’t go down easy.
I stop trying to match him head-on; I keep moving instead, sliding my feet rather than stepping back, letting his blade cut past close enough that I feel the air shift against my ribs before I turn it aside. My breathing sounds gaspy in my ears, but I hold myself together, keeping my eyes on his hands, his shoulders, with wild focus, searching for the subtle cues that tell me what comes next.
My slightly smaller frame gives me a speed advantage, and I use it. Rocco was never as into kendo as I was. I kept training and reached 3-dan, while he’s still at 2-dan. It’s a subtle gap, but it matters. I can’t match his raw strength, so I rely on timing and distance, countering with cleaner technique and tighter control of maai.
Sensing neither of us gaining ground, Rocco crowds me, forcing the fight tight where his size matters more. Our swords cross in front of my chest, locking, and he leans into it, trying to drive me down by sheer force. My arms tremble under the pressure, muscles screaming as he bears in, but instead of pushing back, I start to work the angle. I twist my wrists, inch by inch, changing the point of contact, feeling the balance shift as his grip starts to slip.
Realizing he’s losing control, Rocco flicks his eyes sideways for a heartbeat.
He releases one hand and snatches a small ornamental silver knife from the wall display. The blade flashes, and pain tears across my face, almost blinding, blood spilling as the cut slices diagonally over my cheek. The shock makes my vision flare, but that single moment costs him a precious second that I can use. I surge forward, break the bind, and drive the hilt of my sword into his temple with everything I have.
The blow lands solid. Rocco staggers, drops to one knee with a low, furious grunt, not fully down but rocked enough.
Sirens wail somewhere close now, rising fast, and I do not intend to stay and see what happens next.
I turn and run, bursting back onto the street with my hand pressed to my face, blood dripping warm between my fingers.
For real, I expect it to end there. I’m almost sure I will feel the sharp pain of a bullet or the hands ofsoldatigrabbing me.
Instead, I see Ennio across the street, standing still amid the chaos of people crowding the corner. Our eyes meet. He lifts hishand just enough to point toward a narrow passage between two buildings, his face giving nothing away.
I take the chance without thinking. I cut sharply into the gap, pushing bystanders aside, and run until the noise fades behind me, until the passage ends, leading me out onto a deserted side alley.
Only then do I slow, my breath tearing in and out of my chest as I lean into the shadows, one hand clamped to my bleeding cheek, alive, but shaking and coughing all at once.
The fuck just happened?! How could I be that stupid, that reckless, to crawl into the snake’s nest and expect not to get bitten?
Dragging myself toward the car, I curse under my breath the entire time, dipping deep into my full Sicilian repertoire of elaborate profanities.
Dammit, I need to get out of the city, and fast!
Now, Rocco knows I’m here.
