Bodies fall in waves as they come. Guards scramble, some trying to retreat before my bullet reaches them while others are foolish enough to charge forward. The air fills with the sharp tang of spilled blood and gunpowder, the smell sticking to the back of my throat.
I take the next corner sharply, firing twice without breaking stride. Another one of Bellanti’s men crumples at my feet, his weapon skidding uselessly across the floor. Up ahead is a set of double doors.
I head for it.
A scream cuts down the hallway, high-pitched and soaked in terror, familiar in its cadence.
Luca.
The sound rips straight through my chest. I take the east wing at a full sprint, my boots pounding against marble slick with blood, my shoulder clipping the side of the wall enough to bruise, but I barely feel it. The corridor stretches impossibly long and my vision narrows at that door as my pulse roars so loudly in my ears that it drowns out everything except that scream replaying over and over in my head.
Too late. Too slow.
Luca screams again, though this time, it's only with a single word.
“Mama!”
It breaks something in me.
I throw myself at the door so hard, it causes my teeth to rattle. It bursts open with barely a fight, forcing me to catch myself on my feet before I tumble to the ground.
Carlo Toselli stands near the terrace doors across the room, his back half-turned toward me as one hand grips the side of the doorframe. The curtains whip violently as the night air pours in. Moonlight spills across the floor in a pale, unforgiving wash, illuminating the scene in front of me like a macabre spotlight meant only to punish me.
Enzo is beside him.
He’s got a gun in his hand, his arm extended out with a familiar curve to his mouth already forming. Well, until his eyes lift and land on me, then it dies instantly. Shock flashes across his face for only a few seconds before quickly masking with cool indifference.
My body freezes when I finally follow the muzzle of where his gun is pointed.
Luca is on the floor, sobbing at his feet, while his small hands grab at his mother. His body curls protectively over her, half covering her back and head with his arms. Under him, Elena is on her hands and knees, gasping for air.
Blood pours through her fingers as she clutches her side. It drips in thick, steady drops, each one hitting the floor with a sound I know I will hear for the rest of my life. Her face is ashen, jaw clenched tightly as she fights to stay upright and conscious.
She’s been shot.
The realization lands with a brutal force, knocking the air from my lungs.
No.
No. No, no, no.
Horror floods me so fast, it’s disorienting. It crashes through my body in a wave so violent, I have to plant my feet firmly on the ground to keep from falling to my knees. For a split second, I am not the Don of the Cosenza family. I am not a commander or an executioner or a man who knows how to survive moments like this. I am only a man watching the woman I love bleed out on the marble floor while our son screams for her.
My vision tunnels.
Enzo lifts the gun higher, his finger tightening on the trigger as he points it directly to the back of Luca’s head.
Time fractures.
I see everything at once as I vault forward—Toselli’s pale face slick with sweat as he turns and sprints for the balcony, the way Luca’s cheeks are tear-stained as he pleads with his mother to get up, Enzo’s finger flexing on the trigger, a slow smile creeping across his face again, Elena’s eyes slowly finding mine, relief softening her pained features.
I see my future splintering apart in real time.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I raise my weapon and fire.
