Chapter Eight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The courtyard was dark and quiet. Not dead quiet, but the kind that forewarns of something coming. The kind that settles on your skin like fog and oozes in around your bones.

Two black trucks stood in the driveway, their engines rumbling low like beasts ready to be unleashed at a prey. I stood in front of them, the night encircling my shoulders like a shawl, dark and unreadable. My men, ten of them clustered there, guns in hand, armed and equipped, their eyes aglow, some covered by masks, others laid bare. Killers. My killers.

 I took slow breaths and gazed at my watch. The seconds were going faster tonight. I could tell something was in the air . A crackle, an omen. But it was not important.

"Listen up," I said, speaking low but sharply. They sat up like hounds on command. "I don't care how many bodies hit the ground tonight. Let their camp run red with blood. Burn them to the ground if you can. But make sure someone remains alive."

They nodded tightly, eyes glittering in dim light.

"You have seven men out there, they have no idea you're coming. You're at an advantage, kill as you like but spare one man. Is that clear?"

"Yes, boss!" they chorused together, like a war cry.

I looked over at Marco, standing next to me, a gun hanging at his hip and his jaw clenched like it was wired in place. He said nothing, just opened the back door of the lead truck and gestured for me to enter. I entered, and he followed, closing it hard behind him. The door slammed closed with a metallic click.

The city blurred by, black and sleeping, unaware of the monster trucks that flowed through its arteries. The truck bounced a little as we braked hard to the right onto a shadowy road that cut through the outskirt.

We were twenty minutes out. I checked my gun, a matte black Beretta I'd had with me since my early days in Palermo. Fully loaded. Clean. Effective.

Marco kept glancing at his phone, but said nothing. I trailed the headlights streching ahead of us with inquisitive eyes.

My thoughts raced back to Alessandro, injured and too helpless to save himself and the rage fired me up. Tonight, it fuelled me like gasoline in my veins.

Suddenly, a loud crash erupted, abruptly cutting my train of thoughts.

Bang!

A thunderous sound shattered the quiet of the night and the windshield crashed. "Ambush!" Marco yelled as chaos set in.

Bullets rained down like a damn hail. A truck veered sideways, tires squealing on the gravel as bullets ripped through its body.

 "Down!" Marco shoved me hard, my body landing in the side of the truck just as a bullet exploded through the window.

The men from the second truck poured out like wolves released from a leash, shooting back in a frenzy of noise and flame. AKs thundered. Orange bursts of muzzle flashes lit the night with flashes that made the night dance.

I knelt low, raised my weapon, cracked open the door by an inch and returned fire. One shot directly through the eye of the son of a bitch trying to flank me. Good for me, Bad for him .

"Three on the left!" Marco bellowed, reloading. "One's carrying a launcher!" Boom.

A fireball went up behind us, our second truck had taken the hit. It lifted off the road a bit and crashed back down, tailpipe belching black smoke.

Screams. Roars. Steel on flesh and blood everywhere.

But my men, my men were savages. Decades of violence hardened them to fear. Ricco slit a throat with the knife he kept in his boot. Javier used his shotgun as a club when it was out of ammo. One of the men tried to crawl away, too late. Omar kicked him in the back and fired a full clip into his spine.

"Sniper!" someone yelled.

Marco raised his gun, fired once but wasn't satisfied so he fired again. The man on the roof top lost his grip and fell, his sniper fell right after him like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Smoke hung in the air. Blood stained the gravel. Gargling replaced the screams.

I pushed out of the car afterwards, moving low, scanning the wreckage with eyes. Ten, eleven, twelve enemy bodies laid dead.

What the Fuck! Weren't they supposed to be seven? They were all twisted and bleeding. The guy from the roof top had fallen with his head downwards and broken his neck. This wasn't clean, it was fucking dirty. Just the way I liked it.

It was war.

Whoever this enemy was, he was ruthless and ghostlike. He was very careful and coordinated. Methodical, didn't leave careless clues.

 Someone came at me with a machete, eyes glazed, full of fire. I dodged the first blow, grabbed his arm, pulled him forward and shot him through the chest. Blood sprayed in my face.

"Reloading!" Marco yelled in the comm.

Another person tried to go around him. I turned and brought him down. Two to the chest. One to the neck.

Everywhere fell silent, like someone flipped a switch.

Smoke hung in the air, thick and greasy. Bullets glinted like teeth on the road. The fire crackled weakly in the frame of the second truck.

Marco moved into position beside me, gasping, blood on his jaw. "I think that's it."

I said nothing. My gut twisted as I scanned around for any movement. Anyone creeping creature that didn't come from my gang.

I caught a swift movement, a shadow by my window.

I turned just in time to feel the barrel hard against my temple...

Bang.

The man fell before he was able to shoot. Marco let his gun drop, still a wisp of smoke floating from the muzzle and he dropped right with it.

We surveyed the body. Blood pooled around his head, soaking the fractured gravel. "Those were the last," Marco whispered, his voice shaking only slightly.

I didn't say a word, instead, I crept through the destruction hoping to find a pulse. Twelve corpses. Not one alive. No clues to my goddam enemy.

"I issued one order," I spoke, low and menacing.

Marco looked down. "We tried, boss. They were all shooting for death."

I clenched my fists. The heat in my mind pulsed like a war drum. I knew they had no option and yet, I was mad.

"Someone knew we were coming," I whispered.

 Marco flinched. "I don't know how this got out, I swear. We got the information from two different trusted sources and I made sure to double check."

I moved back against him slowly. "Then it’s either we have a leak or the two sources were planted. We were played."

His face contorted. "Boss... you don't think I—"

I didn't answer. Just looked out at the smoldering remains.

Alessandro was still denied justice.

My cargo, gone! And my only leads to this enemy were all dead, the last with a bullet in his eyes. Well at least I took his men too. Fairs.

I took one more breath of the smoke-scented air and screamed in the darkness, voice gritty and raw, feral with rage.

Who the hell sold me out? And how close was the enemy?

Marco didn't even blink when I screamed. That, more than anything, made me understand he was used to this version of me. The one built of rage and grief. The one that would burn Rome to the ground if it would restore a single box from his stollen goods.

"We have to go," he whispered.

I didn't move. My boots were soaked. I wasn't sure if it was gas, blood, or both but it didn't matter either way.

"I want everything emptied out," I growled. "Cell phones, earpieces, guns, IDs. Anything that tells me who they were or who they reported to. And get me a tape. There are cameras on that building..." I pointed to a warehouse by the road. " I want the bloody feed before midnight."

Marco nodded and sprang to life, barking orders. My soldiers, trained in chaos, fell into formation. Some split off to make the perimeter secure. Others began rolling bodies over like trash, looking for clues.

I stood in the middle of it all, the smoke finally clearing. But not the one in my head.

Who knew we'd be there? More importantly, why were they trying so hard to make sure I didn't get any answers?

Who am I kidding? This was a dirty world; blood for blood, goods for goods. They knew if I found out, I would get revenge. Till the last drop of my blood.

 My eyes drifted to the last body. The one Marco shot. The one who nearly killed me.

I crouched beside him. His mask had slipped, revealing a young face. Twenty, maybe. No tattoos. No scars. No ID.

But something glinted around his neck. A chain.

I tugged it free. It was a small pendant. Insignia etched in silver. It was faint but familiar. I’d seen it before.

I rose slowly, grip tightening. "Marco," I called, holding it up. "Get Enzo on the phone. Now." He blinked. "Enzo? But..."

"Do it," I snapped.

Now more than ever, I was sure this wasn't some street crew.

This was bigger. Political. More organized.

This kind of opponent didn't shoot to kill, but to erase. To silence.