Men peel off soundlessly, becoming angles and blind spots. Time compresses. Every sense sharpens. This is the moment before a storm breaks, when the air goes still, and everything holds its breath. The first man dies without knowing why. A shape in a doorway, a soft crack, a body folding in on itself before it hits the ground. Another goes down near the loading bay, reaching for a weapon he never gets to use. There's no shouting. No chaos yet. Just the quiet removal of obstacles.
Ultimately, someone notices. A shout cut short. A gunshot answered immediately. That's our cue to move.
I breach with two men, muzzle up, eyes tracking. Inside, it looks like any other warehouse. Crates are stacked high,shadows everywhere. Movement flickers and disappears. One man fires wildly. The shot slams into my chest hard enough to knock the breath clean out of me. The impact throws me backward a step, and then Alessio is there, a solid hand at my shoulder, keeping me upright before I can even think to fall.
Fucking Kevlar vest. It's not the first time one of them saved my ass. I suck in a sharp breath. Pain is already blooming across my ribs, hot and deep. That's going to be one motherfucker of a bruise.
I don't give the asshole time to celebrate. I raise my weapon and return fire, controlled, precise. The man jerks once and drops, the sound of his body hitting concrete lost beneath the ringing in my ears. For half a second, I do nothing but breathe. Then I straighten, roll my shoulders, and nod once at Alessio.
"Keep moving," I order.
Pain is temporary. This isn't. Nothing important got hit.
These motherfuckers won't get a second shot at me. Gunfire blooms and dies in short, controlled bursts. No wasted ammo. No hesitation. They scatter, then try to regroup, but panic makes them stupid. Panic makes men predictable. More bodies hit the floor, one by one.
I spot Joaquín at the far end of the warehouse, trying to slip through a side office. He looks smaller than I expected. Older. Desperation has a way of shrinking men.
"Take everyone else," I order calmly into the comm. "He's mine."
He makes it three steps before someone clips his leg. He goes down hard, skidding across concrete, screaming now, finally loud enough to hear. By the time I reach him, the warehouse is quiet again. The quiet of death.
My men secure the perimeter while Joaquín crawls backward, blood slicking the floor beneath him. His eyes lock on mine and widen with recognition.
"Massimo," he breathes, like saying my name might save him.
Which it won't. I crouch in front of him, take in the wreckage, the ruin. Everyone else in the warehouse is dead. Exactly as planned. I grip Joaquín by the collar and haul him upright just enough to meet my gaze.
"This is where you stop running," I tell him quietly.
He curses something I don't bother translating. I stand and gesture once. "Bag him."
Hands descend. Joaquín is dragged away, still alive, still breathing, still very much conscious. The warehouse will be empty by morning. Cleaned. Sanitized. Forgotten.
I step back into the afternoon, blood on my shoes. My mind is already moving ahead to later this evening. Jenna, Amauri.
"We'll interrogate him on the plane, then drop him somewhere over Arizona," I order, and don't bother watching as someone patches Joaquín up long enough so he can answer some questions, then throws him in the back of one of the SUVs. There is no sense in wasting time here. I have a hot date planned.
KnowingMassimo is out there somewhere—armed, hunting, in danger—keeps my nerves stretched thin. I try not to picture it. Try not to imagine steel and gunfire and blood. It doesn't work. Every creak of the building, every distant siren, makes my pulse spike. I tell myself he's done this a thousand times. That he's built for it. That worrying won't bring him back any faster.
None of it helps.
Esther is good with Amauri. Better than good. They spend nearly an hour together, talking, drawing, and—at one point—playing a card game I don't recognize. I watch from a distance, pretending to be busy, soaking in the sound of my son's laughter like medicine. When Esther finally asks to speak with me alone, I brace myself. But she's gentle. Grounded. She tells me Amauri is a tough kid. That he's processing in his own way. The worst thing I could do is rush him or force language onto feelings he's not ready to name yet.
"Let him talk when he's ready," she advises. "Your job is to make sure he knows hecan."
I nod, absorbing it all. I'm tempted—so tempted—to ask her how she thinks I should handle the Carter situation. The words sit right at the back of my throat. What do I say when the man he's always known as his father… disappears? What do I say if the truth is darker than silence? But I don't ask. Not yet.
Esther is smart. She would give me an answer. But some things don't need to be solved this minute. And the truth is, Massimo is already stepping into the role without forcing it. Without posturing. Amauri gravitates toward him naturally, like he senses something solid there. We'll figure it out. We have to. Still, the thought I can't quite outrun curls cold in my stomach: I'm almost certain Carter will see his last sunrise come morning. I don't know how. Or where. I also don't know what—if anything—I'll tell Amauri.
Life is complicated. Mine especially.
I sigh and look out over the city, watching the light shift as afternoon drags toward evening. Somewhere far away, Massimo is doing what he does best, clearing paths through darkness.
The door finally opens just after dusk. He's there, filling the doorway like a presence of power nobody dares to touch. Massimo.
Relief hits me so hard my knees almost give. For a heartbeat, we just look at each other. He looks tired. Not wounded, not broken, just spent, the way men look when they've carried too much weight without setting it down. I cross the room without thinking and throw my arms around him. He holds me immediately—strong, familiar—and for a moment everything feels sonormalit's almost dizzying. Like this is how it's always been. Like the world hasn't been trying to tear us apart. Then he inhales sharply.
I pull back instantly. "Massimo?—"
