Fabio's dark eyes ignite. This is the language he understands—blunt force, applied violence, the satisfaction of watching the enemy's infrastructure turn to ash. He rolls his neck, the tendons cracking. "How many men?"
"Take Enzo and a six-man crew for the warehouse. Santi gets a four-man team for the docks." I plant my hands flat on the table again, leaning forward. "I want comms open the entire time. Live updates, both channels. If either operation goes sideways, I need to know in seconds."
Fabio hesitates. It is a fraction of a beat, barely perceptible, but I catch it. "You're not coming."
It is not a question. Fabio knows me. He reads the tension in my shoulders, the way my eyes keep cutting toward the staircase that leads back up to the private suite.
"No," I say. "I am not leaving this building."
Something passes between us—an understanding that goes deeper than strategy. Fabio knows why I am staying. He saw the copper-haired woman sleeping in my bed. He saw the way I looked at her when the news of the fire came in, like something had cracked open inside the permafrost of my chest. My brother knows that for twenty years, the only thing Dominic Costaprotected was the mission. The mission hasn't changed—it has refocused entirely on the woman upstairs. She is the foundation now, and I don't leave my foundation unguarded during a storm.
"We'll handle it," Fabio says, his voice rough with a blunt certainty that is as close to tenderness as he gets.
Santi is already moving, pulling a tactical vest from the equipment locker against the far wall. He checks the magazine of his sidearm with patient efficiency, slots it back in, and holsters it. He looks at me once—a long, measured look that says everything his mouth does not.
I see you, brother. I see what she's done to you.
I hold his gaze. Then I nod.
They leave within fifteen minutes. Fabio takes the armored SUV with Enzo and his crew, heading west toward the Ashland warehouse line. Santi takes the second vehicle and his team south toward the waterfront docks. The subterranean garage rumbles with the engines, then falls silent.
I am alone in the war room.
I sit at the head of the mahogany table, the comms unit open in front of me, both channels live. The surveillance monitors glow with the blue-white static of street cameras. I pour two fingers of bourbon from the decanter on the sideboard, but I don't drink it. I just hold the glass, letting it anchor my hands.
The first update comes from Santi. Forty minutes in.
"Docks are dark. Four exterior guards. Moving in."
His voice is flat, clinical. I hear nothing for six minutes. Then:
"Perimeter secured. Two guards down. Two surrendered. Port access is ours. Holding the loading bays."
Clean. Surgical. Exactly the way Santi operates—minimum force, maximum result. He reclaimed the Bellanti's port access point without a single shot echoing across the waterfront.
"Hold position," I say into the comms. "No one leaves until I confirm Fabio is clear."
"Copy."
Fabio's channel is louder. I hear the crunch of boots on frozen asphalt, the muffled bark of commands. The Ashland warehouse line is a harder target—more men, more infrastructure, more ways for things to go wrong.
Fabio's voice crackles through the speaker, tight with adrenaline. "Eyes on the hub. Six guards on the loading docks. Two more on the east flank. We're breaching in thirty seconds."
I lean forward, my knuckles white on the edge of the table.
The next two minutes are a staccato burst of suppressed gunfire and shouted commands transmitted through Fabio's open mic. I hear Enzo calling that the east flank is clear. I hear the concussive thud of a breaching charge on the side door. I hear Fabio's savage, furious roar as his team pours into the warehouse.
Then I hear something that stops my blood cold.
A sharp, agonized scream. Not Fabio. One of his men.
"Man down!" Fabio's voice, stripped raw with fury. "They had a second team inside—Loss! Loss! Enzo, cover the north exit!"
My hand tightens on the comms unit. Every instinct in my body screams at me to move, to get in a vehicle and drive to my brother. I force myself to stay seated. Sienna is upstairs. I made my choice.
The firefight lasts another ninety seconds. It feels like ninety years.
Then Fabio's voice, breathing hard, ragged: "Clear. Hub is clear."
