Page 110 of Fire and Silk

He walks calmly to the left side of the room, coat open, and his shoulders loose. His right-hand slips inside his jacket.

Severo sees him. His voice cuts across the room.

“Matteo.”

Matteo doesn't stop walking. He comes up behind Severo’s chair—just to the left. Three feet away.

Matteo’s hand emerges. Gun drawn.

He raises it without pause and presses the muzzle to the side of Severo’s head.

The barrel touches skin. Right temple. Firm. Dead-centered.

“Sorry, boss.”

Air heaves in my throat.

Severo doesn’t move. His eyes shift just slightly, turning toward Matteo’s arm, then forward again.

I stand frozen as I realized this was a trap.

****

One of the men steps behind me.

I turn sharply, but my arms are grabbed and forced backward before I can react. Thick rope wraps my wrists—tight. Not rushed. Practiced. It digs into the bones of my wrists instantly, slicing a clean line through skin. I wince, twisting against it, but the man doesn’t flinch.

Another man steps up to Severo. He braces, ready, but doesn’t strike first.

A second rope closes around his wrists and cinches hard. He jerks forward, almost knocking the chair over, but two men hold him. One grabs his shoulder while the other presses the barrel of a rifle into his ribs. He freezes.

Someone tears a strip of tape from a roll.

I shake my head violently, lips pressed tight, but a rough hand grabs my jaw, and the tape slaps across my mouth. I breathe hard through my nose, chest heaving.

Severo growls something behind his gag. The tape muffles him, but the rage in his eyes is clear.

Matteo hasn’t moved. The gun is still in his hand, pointed low now, resting at his side. His stare drifts across the room—watchful, clinical.

The men begin moving us.

We’re led through a second door hidden in the wood paneling. Two of them drag Severo. My feet stumble over the threshold as I’m shoved forward into a dark hallway that slopes downward—concrete walls, steel grates, fluorescent lights flickering overhead.

At the bottom, the passage opens to a loading dock.

A large black truck waits with its back doors open. No markings. Engine running.

They grab my arm and push me toward it.

I try to dig my heels into the ground. The friction stings, the rope cuts deeper. My wrists are already wet with blood.

I’m shoved hard from behind. I fall into the metal floor, knees slamming down, ribs catching on the side rail.

Behind me, I hear shouting. Struggling.

Severo’s voice is muffled but sharp—then broken off.

A thud.