Page 87 of Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You

Matteo ties the kid's wrists with rough, quick loops. "Got it. Remind me never to let you pick the paint for the living room."

We sweep the remaining rooms in under eight minutes. Two dead on the linoleum, one shivering in our van. The neighboring street remains pitch-black and lifeless because locals know that looking through window blinds during a Moretti sweep is an easy way to get buried.

The second warehouse sits out on rotted timber pilings over the black water, sheet metal rattling in the wind. Adrian raises his suppressed barrel twice; two guards drop hard into the gravel before their cigarette embers even flicker out. I kick the rusted side door inward until the frame buckles. Four men scramble behind wooden shipping crates inside. A blast from a 12-gauge chews a crater into the concrete pillar beside my ear, throwing gray powder into my eyes. I put three rounds straight through the thin pine planks. Splinters shred outward, followed by a heavy thud as dead weight collapses behind the wood. A slug grazes my left arm, tearing cotton and dragging a white-hot line across the muscle. I step straight through the brass casings littering the floor and raise my weapon.

Matteo sweeps low behind a yellow forklift, his weapon barking in tight bursts until a shooter folds over a pallet. One guard breaks and sprints for the loading doors toward the dark water. I cut the corner and grab him by the nylon collar of his vest, spinning him off his feet and driving his skull into the dock floorboards. Cartilage crunches wet beneath his nose. I tangle my fingers into his hair and jerk his face up toward mine.

I step down hard against his chest until he groans. "What channel are the docks using?"

The man coughs up spit against the floor. "Channel four, you prick. But you'll never make it there alive!"

I squeeze the trigger once, ending his noise. The blast rings out across the metal roof. I turn back toward the loading docks while Adrian finishes dismantling the security panels.

Matteo tosses a flare into the pool of ruptured diesel fuel as we clear the threshold. Heat roars against our backs, yellow flames licking up the corrugated siding toward the roof. My mobile buzzes against my chest with incoming reconnaissance.

I wipe grease from my cheek before getting behind the steering wheel. "Where to next?"

Adrian pulls his seatbelt across his chest. "The stone house by the old road. Lots of lights on, plenty of guards outside."

The third house sits behind neat stone walls in a quiet residential district. Terracotta roof, flower boxes, polished gravel. We breach the rear patio door at midnight using suppressed carbines. Two sentries rush into the central hallway with shotguns raised. I drop the first with two rapid center-mass hits. The second catches Matteo's blade across the throat before he can clear his holster. Blood spatters the white stucco walls. I step over him without slowing.

The basement security door is solid steel. I pump three rounds into the electronic lock casing and drive my boot through the latch. The door swings into a concrete bunker lit by a single fluorescent tube. Three Bellini soldiers scramble from a card table. One lunges for a radio console. I catch his forearm and snap the radius across the edge of the metal desk, pinning his throat with my forearm.

I slam his jaw hard into the table until the metal groans beneath him. "Where is the money?"

The man chokes for air, his hands waving in panic. "The hard drive! It's in the wall behind the desk! Take it!"

"Found it," Matteo calls out, ripping the silver drive from the hole in the plaster. "Bellini is flat broke."

A satellite phone on the ruined desk suddenly rings, the harsh chime cutting through the dust. I snatch it up and hit the speaker button.

"Enjoying the demolition, Moretti?" Bellini's voice crackles through, venomous and dripping with mock cheer.

"Your guns are ash, your cash is burned, and your men are dead," I answer, watching smoke curl off the barrels in the room.

"Do you really think taking a few empty warehouses hurts me?" Bellini spits back, his voice crackling through the line. "You run around playing soldier in the dirt while blind to your own living room. You want to win this war, Luca? Stop burning my trash and search from the inside your house to find the traitor first."

The line goes dead with a sharp click.

Silence slams down on the ruined concrete basement. Matteo stops dead in his tracks, the hard drive hanging loose in his fingers, his usual cocky smirk completely erased from his mouth. Beside the blown door frame, Adrian freezes mid-stride, his jaw tightening into iron as his hand grips his rifle until his knuckles turn white.

"Traitor?" Matteo whispers, his gaze flicking from the radio table directly to Adrian, then snapping toward me. "What the fuck is he talking about, Luca? That's bullshit. He's just trying to get inside your head while he bleeds out."

I set the dead receiver flat against the dented steel desk, my thumb pressing the plastic until the casing snaps.

"He knows we're here," Adrian murmurs, stepping into the center of the bunker, eyes darting toward the open hallway like the walls themselves have ears. "He knew about the raids, Luca. If someone inside the family gave him our routes..."

"Nobody speaks a word of this," I cut him off, my voice dropping dangerously low, deadly and quiet. I turn my eyes on both of them until Matteo swallows hard and looks away. "Not to anyone. Keep it that way. We finish Nora's extraction, we burn Bellini's empire to ash, and then I tear our own house apart brick by brick until I find out who sold us out."

We plant explosives on the server racks and walk out. Within seconds, the basement erupts into smoke and fire, destroying Bellini's financial network for good.

Outside by the stone wall, Enzo steps out of the shadows, a smoking shotgun resting across his shoulder. He kicks a dead guard into the bushes, his face smeared with black soot and a wild smirk stretching across his mouth.

"Took you long enough," Enzo spits, wiping grease on his jeans. "I took down three sentries out here while you old men were having a polite chat inside."

The mountain breeze hits us as we clear the courtyard. Blood from my shoulder wound is soaking warm through my left cuff. Matteo gives my sleeve a long, critical look.

"You're bleeding on the leather, Luca," Matteo points out, gesturing with his weapon. "Nonna will kill us if you ruin another good jacket."