Chapter 59 - No More Chains

The compound on the outskirts of Palermo had once been a wine estate, all crumbling stone and ivy-strangled walls, but now it served as a fortress for the last threads of the De Marco and Donatello trafficking empire. Its beauty was deceptive, beyond the iron gates and manicured hedges were hidden bunkers, rooms with reinforced doors, and the stench of exploitation lingering in the air.

Massimo stood before the electronic display inside one of the Morelli surveillance trucks, his fingers curled into fists as he studied the live feeds. Lorenzo stood at his side, geared in black tactical armor, his expression stone. Talana was on a separate line with Don Sanchiano’s reinforcements, coordinating the external assault. Gianna, though kept at the rear for safety, was fully informed, her voice had joined Talana’s in every strategic meeting, refusing to be sidelined.

“This is where they hold them,” Lorenzo muttered, pointing to a grainy camera feed that showed a group of girls in a dark room, hunched together on cots. “Twelve, maybe fifteen. All young. Drugged or starved.”

Massimo’s voice was low. “We move in ten. No hesitation. I want every man inside this operation detained or dead. No one runs. No one disappears.”

Lorenzo nodded. “My men are ready.”

“And mine are positioned on all exits,” Talana’s voice crackled through the comms. “We’re not just hitting the warehouse. The buyers coming in by boat won’t make it to shore. We have Sanchiano’s team on the dock in disguise. We’re cutting this off at the head and the tail.”

Massimo’s jaw tightened with approval. “Move.”

At once, a flurry of motion erupted. The vans peeled forward toward the estate. Armed men in sleek black gear spread into formation. Silence cloaked them as they infiltrated the outer perimeter, disabling cameras and sweeping the grounds.

Inside the compound, De Marco’s remaining lieutenant, a snake of a man named Vittorio Scali, glanced up from a shipment manifest as the first warning buzzed across the monitors. A disruption. Movement on the northwest wall.

Before he could bark an order, a smoke grenade rolled through the open hallway. Chaos detonated instantly.

Lorenzo moved like a shadow through the entry, a silencer on his weapon, eyes scanning and eliminating threats with ruthless precision. He didn’t need instructions. His mission was clear: find the prisoners, secure the women, end this nightmare.

Talana entered from the south wing with four heavily armed guards. She wore black cargo gear, her face masked but eyes burning with purpose. Her path took her directly to the records room—if they could retrieve even part of the shipment logs, they could dismantle any leftover buyers operating independently.

Behind her, two of Sanchiano’s men carried duffel bags of explosives, one for the vaults, another for the communications hub. Nothing would be left standing.

Meanwhile, Massimo stormed the east corridor where resistance was heaviest. Donatello’s final guards, desperate and cornered, opened fire. Bullets sparked against stone. Massimo ducked, returned fire, and moved forward with the precision of a war-hardened general. Two men fell before him, then three.

From behind the holding room door, Lorenzo heard a cry, a muffled scream that shattered the calm in his gut. Without pause, he shot the lock and kicked it open.

Inside, the sight brought his breath to a halt.

Fifteen young women—some barely older than teenagers, turned to him, eyes hollow with fear. The room stank of sweat, urine, and despair. The walls were padded with old insulation, as if to muffle their cries.

“It’s okay,” he said, lowering his weapon. “We’re here to get you out.”

One of the girls flinched, unsure, until another—older, braver, stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“Lorenzo de Luca. My name doesn’t matter. But you're safe now.”

The older girl studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “The others—some are in the lower cells.”

His blood ran cold. “How many?”

“I don’t know. Maybe twenty. Some were taken to the boats last night. Some didn’t come back.”

Lorenzo turned to his comm. “Talana, there’s more beneath the surface. Cellars.”

Her voice responded instantly. “Understood. I’m on it.”

As Lorenzo herded the first group toward the extraction path, he paused only once—to place a kiss to the head of the bravest girl. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

In the lower vaults, Talana’s team blasted through the reinforced steel doors with C-4 charges. The explosion shook the entire estate. She rushed in first, flashlight high, gun aimed. What she saw made her stomach churn.

Another group of girls. Some unconscious, others too weak to move.

She signaled for her men to begin emergency extractions. Blankets were passed out. Medical responders from the Morelli alliance stormed in behind her, administering aid.

Talana knelt by a frail girl, barely breathing. “You’re safe now,” she whispered, brushing blood-caked hair from the girl’s forehead. “No one will hurt you again.”

Outside, as the last hostiles were dragged from the compound, bound and bruised, Massimo spotted one man trying to slip through the hedge maze behind the villa. A tall figure with familiar tattoos.

Massimo gave chase. Two of his guards flanked him, boots pounding the grass.

The man sprinted faster, desperation leaking from every movement. He had almost cleared the wall when a shot rang out, clean and sharp. He fell face first into the dirt, screaming as Lorenzo strode up behind him, gun still raised.

“You don’t get to run,” Lorenzo snarled.

The man coughed blood. “Please… I was just following orders.”

Massimo towered over him. “You were trafficking girls. You don't get mercy.”

He nodded to the guards. “Bag him. We’ll make him talk.”

As sirens wailed in the distance, authorities arriving at last, tipped off and paid off by Sanchiano’s alliance, Massimo looked out over the compound. The girls were being loaded into armored medical vans. Talana and Gianna emerged from different sectors, both bloodied but upright, determined.

The chains were broken, but the war wasn’t over yet.