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A Capo slams his hand on the table. “Martinelli’s dead.”
Gabi leans forward. “Apparently not. And his shadow just cost us another warehouse.”
So, he does know.
I watch the argument ignite like a lit match dropped in a gasoline. Words fly as everyone suddenly wants to pitch in. Some argue that family comes before love, speaking of Sophia like she’s an inconvenience or a line item on a balance sheet.
Izzy sits across the room, immaculate in black silk and bright lipstick. She says nothing. Only watches me.
Nonna Rosa’s voice slices through the shouting. “Enough.” She plants her cane with a thud. “Our legacy is not built on selling daughters, wives, or honor. We are not merchants of flesh.”
Silence falls.
The soft, almost maternal look that flits through her eyes is fleeting. “Enzo, handle this. Quietly. No more family blood spilled on my floors.”
“Understood.” My tone leaves no space for debate. “I’ll take care of this, Nonna.”
I head for the garage, where Marco waits.
He leans on a workbench, his sleeves rolled, his grin half-cocked. “You’ve got that look again. The one that usually ends with explosions.”
“Volkovs think they can make a trade for my wife.”
His smile dies. “Ah. So we’re going with Plan Burn Everything.”
“Not yet.” I shake my head. “Just scorch the edges. What did you find out about them and Martinelli?”
He shrugs. “They don’t seem to know he’s alive or in Miami yet, but I can’t predict how long that will last. Are you planning to do what I think?”
“Get Martinelli on my own? Yes, but first we need to start some trouble and cause an adequate distraction.”
We talk in clipped bursts, mapping angles, supply routes, enemy fronts, and how to navigate them. Marco flicks ash from his cigarette as I scribble escape paths across the map. “You’re serious about this?”
“Dead serious.”
Marco sighs. “All right then, Boss. Say the word.”
“The word’s war, but not the kind they expect.”
I gather Vito and Rocco next and tell them the target. A Volkov clubhouse in the old district, mostly used as a staging base for low-level soldiers. Minimal guards and maximum humiliation.
“No killing unless necessary,” I stress.
Vito frowns. “You going to preach them into submission?”
“Just a reminder,” I answer. “We have a longer reach.”
At midnight, the city hums with distant sirens, neon bleeding across rain-slick streets. Our van rolls silently down alleys too narrow for mistakes.
Marco rides shotgun, his eyes scanning radar feeds. “Cameras scrambled. We’ve got five minutes.”
Rocco loads the tranquilizer darts. Vito checks restraints. They fall into the rhythm of men who’ve buried enough ghosts to move without thinking.
The Volkov clubhouse squats behind a crumbling wall tagged with Cyrillic scrawl. Laughter leaks out as the men drink, confident in their safety.
We breach cleanly, with one kick and one flash grenade. As smoke fills the room, screams slice through the haze.
“Hands up!” Vito barks.
