The warehouse looms ahead of me, silent and dark against the gray water of the docks.
Warehouse seventeen.
I step out of the car alone.
Leone and the others are already in position somewhere beyond the perimeter, exactly where I ordered them to be. Watching. Waiting.
But Pavlov doesn’t know that.
As far as he’s concerned, Niccolò Neri has come to die alone.
I walk toward the entrance slowly, hands visible at my sides.
Two Russians wait outside. One of them approaches me, gun drawn.
“Hands up.”
I raise them without protest.
He pats me down roughly, searching for weapons. My jacket. My waistband. My boots.
I let him. If this were just about me, I would have brought half an arsenal. But this is about Izzy and Noah. So I came exactly the way Pavlov demanded.
Unarmed.
“Move,” the man says.
He gestures toward the door.
I start forward, then I hear it.
A scream. It’s high and thin.
Noah.
Another shout follows.
Izzy.
Something inside me snaps.
The man patting me down never even sees the punch coming.
My elbow drives into his throat. He drops instantly, choking. I grab the gun from his hand before he hits the ground and fire once into the second guard.
The shot echoes across the docks.
Then I kick the warehouse door open.
The scene inside freezes for half a second.
Vladimir Pavlov—with a knife to Izzy’s throat.
My vision goes red.
“Hands off my queen, you piece of shit.”
“You should have come unarmed,”he says coolly.
