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MARCO

I’m in my office, scrolling through the day’s news. I do this religiously now, wondering if and when I might come across strides Aria might be making.

Just then, the phone rings. As per my experience, nothing good ever comes from calls this late into the night.

“Hello?” I ask.

It’s Nicolo, and he sounds like he’s in panic, his voice breathless as he tells me Warehouse 7 is burning. My men are dying. Someone has declared war.

My blood turns to ice.

“How many?” I demand, already moving, snatching my jacket from the back of my chair.

“At least four down,” Nicolo pants, the crackle of flames audible in the background. “They came out of nowhere and had military-grade equipment.”

“Fabrizio’s friends wanting revenge?” I wonder.

“No,” Nicolo says. “These weren’t street thugs with something to prove. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. They knew our security protocols. Our shipment schedule.”

I’m already in the garage, sliding behind the wheel of my Aston Martin.

“I’m on my way,” I say, ending the call.

The city streets blur past my windows as I push the car to its limits. Warehouse 7 houses our newest weapons shipment—Czech-made, worth millions, untraceable. Someone targeting it isn’t just making a statement.

They’re acquiring firepower.

My mind cycles through potential enemies as I weave through traffic. The Colombians, unhappy with our last negotiation? The Russians, always looking to expand their territory?

Some upstart gang hoping to make a name for themselves?

None of these possibilities settle right in my gut.

This feels personal.

Calculated.

A message meant specifically for me.

But in no world could it be her. Pulling something off at this scale? Impossible.

I shove that thought out of my mind.

I round the final corner, and the warehouse comes into view. The sight punches the air from my lungs.

The entire eastern side of the building has collapsed, steel beams twisted like melted plastic.

Flames lick the night sky, painting everything in hellish orange light. Black smoke billows upward, a dark column visible for miles.

Fire crews battle the blaze while my men secure the perimeter.

I slam the car to a stop and step out into chaos. The heat hits me first, a wall of blistering air that makes my skin tighten.

Then the smell—burning metal, melted plastic.

The sound is deafening—the roar of flames, shouted orders, sirens wailing in the distance.

Nicolo spots me and jogs over, his face streaked with soot, a gash across his forehead weeping blood down the side of his face.