From alcoves.
From behind vehicles.
From the side entrance of the medical wing.
Black tactical gear. Ear pieces.
Weapons already drawn.
Every movement calculated. Every reaction immediate.
The cameras—
I knew they were there.
Recording. Watching.
Capturing every second of what I had just done.
A ring formed around me.
Tight. Closing.
At least a dozen men.
Maybe more.
Most of them towering over me, their builds broad and imposing, their presence overwhelming in a way that made the space feel smaller with every breath I took.
Some raised compact MP5s.
Others held Berettas at low-ready.
And a few—held batons.
Ready to break bone with a single swing.
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t step back.
Didn’t lower my fists.
I would rather die here—on cold concrete—fighting every last one of them—than walk into that building quietly.
Than let them take me in.
Than let them cut into me while I was still breathing.
Behind me—movement.
Two men rushed to Vincenzo.
“Boss—!”
“Are you—”
He raised a hand.
