Then the warehouse goes dark, and there's nothing left but waiting.
15
LUCA
Iwake up in blood.
My own blood, pooling on the hardwood floor of my destroyed kitchen. My head is screaming, vision blurred at the edges. Someone hit me hard enough to crack my skull. I can feel the wet heat running down the back of my neck, soaking into my collar.
I don't care.
I push myself up, the room spinning. Glass crunches under my palms. The penthouse reeks of smoke, explosives and blood.
They took Francesca.
I stagger to my feet, reach for my phone. My hands are steady even though my head feels like it's splitting open. Crimson drips from my temple onto the screen as I pull up my contacts. I start making calls.
The first one is to Sal. He answers on the second ring.
"Boss?"
"Bratva took her. I need everyone. Now."
"How many?"
"Everyone." I wipe my eyes clear. "I need you to find her. Call every contact we have. Check with our guys in Brighton Beach.Someone saw something. Black vans, multiple occupants, anything leaving Tribeca in the last hour."
"On it. You need me to call Don Marco?"
"Yeah." I look at the bodies on my floor. Several of them lie in pools of spreading crimson. I killed them before the others swarmed me. It wasn't enough. "Tell him what happened. Tell him I'm asking for his help—NYPD contacts, traffic cams, whatever he can give me. And tell him I need to go get her back."
There's a pause. "Boss, if they took her to Brighton Beach and you go in there?—"
"I know." My voice is flat. "But I'm going anyway. Make the call."
I hang up.
I walk to my bedroom. The pain in my head is background noise. Everything is background noise except the singular focus of getting her back.
They took what's mine.
They're all dead. Every single one of them.
I strip off my blood-soaked shirt and pull on tactical gear from my closet. Black cargo pants, black long-sleeve shirt, boots. I strap on my shoulder holster, check my Glock. Fully loaded. I grab the spare magazines, a backup piece for my ankle, and the knife I keep in a sheath at my lower back.
My phone buzzes. A text from Sal with an address. A warehouse in Brighton Beach, industrial district near the water. A grainy still image attached—black van, partial plate visible.
Our guy at the 60th saw this on the traffic cam. Heading south on Ocean Parkway, timestamp shows it was recent. One of our people in Brighton Beach just called—Morozov's been moving men to this address. Industrial warehouse. Looks like the place.
I answer Sal with one word:
Go.
Then I grab my go-bag from the closet. Medical supplies, cash, fake IDs, burner phones. Everything I need if this goes sideways. I'm walking out of my bedroom when my phone rings again.
Don Marco.
I consider not answering. But Marco didn't build his empire by being ignored, and I need him to know what's coming.
