I sucked in a breath, grounding myself.
My thighs ached from the last forty-five minutes—locked tight against the bike as we tore through winding roads at a speed that flirted with recklessness and death.
My pulse still thundered in my ears, adrenaline humming beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
Renzo killed his ignition.
The Ducati fell silent with a mechanical sigh.
He set his helmet onto the clip behind the seat and dismounted in one fluid motion, like gravity itself had agreed to accommodate him.
We stood side by side now.
Black on black.
Control on control.
I wore fitted tactical leggings and a long-sleeve compression top beneath a cropped leather jacket.
Inside those pockets—carefully balanced—sat my Glock, extra magazines, and the quiet weight of preparedness.
Low-profile combat boots anchored me to the ground.
Ready to run.
Ready to fight.
Renzo looked the part too.
Dark tactical pants.
A black Henley stretched across his compact, muscular frame, the sleeves hugging his forearms.
A lightweight armored vest sat unzipped just enough to reveal the gold chain resting at his throat—casual defiance against the violence he carried.
We didn’t look like guests.
We didn’t look like negotiators.
We looked like what we were.
Bikers who doubled as killers.
Royalty riding machines that cost more than most people’s lives.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering tension in my body.
Renzo headed for the entrance of the building—a glass monolith.
I followed without hesitation.
This had to be where the meeting with the Sicilians was taking place.
The Third Battalion moved with us.
Twenty-eight shadows falling into formation behind our steps.
Every man spacing himself with calculated precision, forming a silent perimeter that stretched across the gravel like a living weapon.
