“Ambush!” I yell, diving behind a concrete barrier as bullets pepper the ground where I stood.
Screams and curses fill the comms as men from both families take hits. Marco goes down three feet from me, clutching his shoulder. Lorenzo, my most experienced captain, collapses with a spray of blood from his chest.
Through the chaos, I spot Nico pinned down behind a forklift, two of his bodyguards already motionless beside him.
“They knew we were coming,” Fed shouts, returning fire as he drags a wounded soldier to cover. “They’ve got mounted guns on the containers!”
The air fills with the deafening rattle of automatic weapons as Tartarov’s men pour devastating fire into our position. We’re caught in the open, outgunned and surrounded.
I spot a shooter with a laser sight tracking toward Nico’s position. Without thinking, I sprint through the hail of bullets.
“Nico, down!” I bellow, launching myself across the open space.
The bullet meant for Nico’s head tears through my shoulder instead. White-hot pain explodes through my body as I crash into him, both of us tumbling behind a stack of crates. Blood soaks my shirt, but adrenaline keeps the worst of the pain at bay.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nico gasps, eyes wide with shock.
“Saving your ungrateful ass,” I grunt, pressing my hand against the wound. “Our families die if both of us don’t make it out of here.”
A grenade lands five feet away. I grab Nico’s collar and heave us both behind a concrete pillar as the explosion rocks the warehouse, showering us with debris.
“Fed!” I shout into my comm. “Emergency extraction, now!”
“On it!” Fed’s voice crackles through static.
Nico pulls out his sidearm and returns fire, covering us as we crawl toward the east exit. “My men are cut to pieces out there.”
“So are mine,” I say through gritted teeth. “But we’re no good to them dead.”
A black SUV crashes through the warehouse doors, Federico behind the wheel. Maximo provides covering fire from the passenger seat.
“Move!” I push Nico toward the vehicle, firing blindly behind us.
We dive into the backseat as bullets shatter the rear window. Fed floors it, tires screeching as we burst through a chain-link fence.
“Tartarov?” I demand, pressing a rag against my bleeding shoulder.
“Gone,” Maximo spits. “Disappeared during the first volley.”
Nico’s eyes meet mine across the blood-smeared leather seat. “You took that bullet for me.”
“Yeah, well, don’t read too much into it,” I mutter.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Three generations of hatred, and you risked your life for mine.”
“Our war ends with Tartarov,” I say firmly. “Not with either of us in a body bag.”
Nico extends his hand. I clasp it, feeling something shift between us—not friendship, not yet, but something more profound than mere alliance.
The SUV speeds through the night, tires screeching against wet pavement. Blood—mine and others’—stains the leather seats. No one speaks. The weight of our failure hangs heavy in the cramped space.
“Nine dead,” Fed finally says, breaking the silence. “Four ours, five Morettis. Plus a dozen wounded.”
I press my hand against my throbbing shoulder. Maximo had examined it during our escape, pouring vodka over the wound and wrapping it with a torn shirt. Just a graze, but deep enough to leave a new scar.
“He knew we were coming,” I mutter, watching the city lights blur past my window. “Someone’s feeding Tartarov information.”
“Another leak,” I mutter, watching the city lights blur past my window. “Someone’s feeding Tartarov information. Again.”
