Page 35

SALVATORE

I 'm following Gianni downstairs as the call comes in—three short rings. I answer before the fourth.

Tano's voice crackles through the speaker, tight with controlled panic. "Boss, we have a situation in Ostia."

I'm already moving, pulling on shoes as he talks. My shirt catches on my shoulder holster. "How bad?"

"Three dead. Two trucks burning. Bruno's pinned down near the shoreline."

The line goes dead. I grab my jacket and gun, taking the stairs three at a time. The Maserati is waiting in the drive, engine running, and I floor the accelerator as we tear through the gates and onto the coastal road. Gianni grips the handle over his head for dear life.

Twenty minutes later, I see the smoke.

Black columns rise from the wreckage, visible from half a mile away. The convoy was hit at the perfect spot—a narrow stretch of road with cliffs on one side and rocky beach on the other. No witnesses, no escape routes. Classic ambush positioning.

I count two burning trucks and one overturned sedan. Bodies are scattered across the asphalt, some in our colors, others in Costa black. The smell of gasoline and gunpowder fills the air.

Bruno crouches behind the overturned sedan, automatic rifle trained on a cluster of rocks near the water. Muzzle flashes wink from behind the stones. The bastards are still fighting.

I roll out of the car before it stops moving. Gravel bites through my suit pants as my knee hits the ground. "How many?" I shout over the gunfire.

Bruno doesn't take his eyes off the shoreline. "Four, maybe five. They hit us hard and fast, then got caught in their own crossfire."

A bullet whines past my head, chipping concrete from the seawall. I drop low and circle wide, using the burning trucks as cover. The heat is intense, singeing my eyebrows as I move.

One of the Costa soldiers breaks cover, sprinting toward a speedboat pulled up on the beach. I track him with my pistol, leading the shot. The bullet catches him center mass. He stumbles, arms windmilling, then falls face-first into the sand.

Bruno advances on the rocks, laying down suppressing fire. Brass casings arc through the air, ringing against the asphalt. I flank from the opposite side, boots crunching on broken shells and seaweed. Two more soldiers huddle behind a boulder, fumbling to reload their weapons.

The first one sees me coming. He swings his rifle around, but his hands shake with adrenaline. Too slow. My shot takes him in the throat. Blood sprays across the gray stone.

The second man tries to run. His feet slip on wet rocks as he scrambles toward the water. Bruno drops him with a single round to the back. The body tumbles into the surf.

Silence settles over the beach. Waves lap against the rocky shore, washing away streaks of crimson. I walk among the bodies, checking faces—all Costa men. They're Emilio's regular crew.

One of them is still breathing. Chest wound, pink froth on his lips. He won't last long, but long enough to talk.

I kneel beside him in the sand. "Who gave the order?"

His eyes focus on my face with tremendous effort. Blood runs from the corner of his mouth. "Go to hell."

I press the barrel of my gun against his forehead. The metal is still hot from firing. "I live in hell, Son. Who sent you?"

"Emilio." The word comes out as a wet whisper. "Said to send a message."

I cock the hammer. "Message received."

The gunshot echoes across the water. Seagulls scatter from their perches on the pier pilings, crying their indignation at the disturbance.

Bruno appears at my shoulder, rifle hanging loose in his hands. "It's a clean sweep, Sal. They're all down."

I survey the carnage. Three of my men dead, five trucks destroyed, cargo scattered across the road. The financial loss is manageable. The insult is not.

"Sloppy work," I say, holstering my weapon. "Emilio's getting desperate."

An armored Mercedes pulls up behind the wreckage, tires crunching over broken glass. Gianni steps out, flanked by two soldiers. He takes in the scene with professional detachment, already calculating cleanup requirements.

"Cleanup crew is five minutes out," he reports. "Local police have been delayed."

I wipe blood from my hands with a handkerchief. "Good. Get the bodies in the trucks before they arrive."

We retreat to the Mercedes. The interior is soundproofed, climate-controlled, and bulletproof. A mobile office for conducting business in hostile territory.

Gianni spreads a map across the fold-down table, smoothing the creases with careful fingers. Red pins mark Costa holdings throughout Rome. I study the layout, calculating angles of attack.

"Three targets," I decide, tapping the paper. "Hit them all tonight."

Gianni nods, pulling out a pen. The gold cap glints in the overhead light. "Which ones?"

My finger finds the first location. "Casino in Trastevere. That's their main laundering operation, handles ten million a month."

"Security?" Gianni makes a note in the margin. "They rely on being hidden."

Another tap of his pen and I say, "Logistics depot near Vatican wall. All their weapons shipments pass through there."

Gianni frowns at the map. "That's a harder target. The Swiss Guard patrols nearby."

I lean back in the leather seat. "Then we go fast and loud. No subtlety."

The third target makes Gianni smile, a cold expression that doesn't reach his eyes. "The butcher shop."

"It's their underground arsenal. They think nobody knows about it." I close my hand into a fist. "They're wrong."

"I'll take a full crew. Shaped charges for the vault, thermite for the weapons."

The Mercedes rocks slightly as we turn onto the highway. "I want Emilio brought to me alive. Not his lieutenants, not his drivers. Him."

Gianni's pen stops moving. "What about the girl?"

Rosaria is the wild card, the factor that changes everything. Emilio will use her against me if he can. Or try to kill her if he can't.

"She stays at the estate. Triple the guard detail."

Gianni folds the map with military precision. "Timeline?"

"Midnight. Hit all three simultaneously. Maximum chaos, minimum response time."

He slides the map into his jacket pocket. "And after?"

I watch Rome's skyline appear through the bulletproof glass. "After, we end this."

The drive back to Naples passes in tense silence. I watch the countryside roll by, thinking about chess moves and blood debts. Emilio started this war the moment he threw paint at a pregnant woman. Now he gets to finish it.

The estate appears around a bend in the road, sprawling across the hillside in the afternoon sun. Home. Sanctuary. The place where she waits for me.

I find her in the bedroom, curled beneath silk sheets. Sleep has softened her features, erased the worry lines that have appeared over the past weeks. She looks younger, more vulnerable. The slight curve of her belly is visible beneath the fabric.

I stand in the doorway for a long time, watching her breathe. In sleep, she belongs entirely to herself. No performance, no masks, no careful composure. The rise and fall of her chest is hypnotic, peaceful.

My phone buzzes against my ribs with a text from Gianni that the teams are assembled, awaiting orders.

I type back with steady fingers.

Salvatore 7:18 AM: Execute at midnight.

She stirs slightly, murmuring wordlessly in her sleep. Her hand moves to rest on her stomach, protecting the life growing there even in unconsciousness. The gesture makes my chest constrict with unfamiliar emotion.

This ends tonight. One way or another, this war finishes before our child is born. Emilio thinks he can threaten what's mine and walk away. He's about to learn the price of that miscalculation.

I close the door softly and head downstairs to prepare for battle.