CHAPTER 17: Ambush at Pier 9

The cold alpine wind off the lake carried a sharp, metallic tang that made the hair on Dante’s arms stand up. They had barely stepped five meters into the shadow of Warehouse 4 when the rhythmic lapping of the dark water was obliterated by the screaming roar of a supercharged V8 engine.

From behind the rusted hull of an abandoned cargo crane, a matte-black, reinforced SUV tore through the fog, its headlights completely blacked out.

"Get down!" Dante roared, his voice stripping away all robotic detachment as his tactical instincts took absolute control.

Before Silvio or the other Valeriano enforcers could draw their weapons, the black SUV slammed headfirst into the side of the vanguard vehicle with a sickening, bone-crushing crunch of steel and shattering safety glass. The impact threw the parked SUV directly into Silvio, pinning him beneath a ton of twisted metal with a horrific scream that was instantly cut short.

"Marcones!" one of the remaining guards screamed, fumbling with his submachine gun.

Pft-pft-pft-pft!

A synchronized volley of suppressed, high-caliber automatic gunfire erupted from the shattered windows of the black SUV. The bullets cut through the remaining Valeriano enforcers with surgical precision, ripping through wool coats and flesh, dropping them onto the blood-slicked gravel before they could even disengage their safety switches.

Dante didn't waste a breath trying to save them. The moment the black grill had appeared through the mist, his left hand had locked onto the collar of Isabella’s charcoal dress. With a burst of raw, explosive power, he dragged her backward into the narrow, recessed alcove of a heavy steel machinery housing just as a hail of lead chewed the concrete where she had been standing into white powder.

"Dante!" Isabella gasped, her porcelain mask completely shattered as she was slammed against the cold iron wall, her dark eyes wide with unadulterated adrenaline. "They aren't trying to capture me. They're executing everyone!"

"I told you, your father dangled you as live bait, and the Marcones brought a sledgehammer," Dante hissed, his hand already wrapped around the grip of his custom semi-automatic pistol. He glanced around the edge of the iron housing. Three heavily armed men in sterile, unmarked tactical gear were stepping out of the matte-black vehicle, their assault rifles raised, sweeping the fog. "They don't want the ledger anymore. They want to cut the head off the Valeriano family by wiping out its financial core."

"The crates are empty anyway," she whispered fiercely, her breath fogging in the freezing air, her fingers tightening around his dark coat. "If we die here, nobody gets anything."

"You aren't dying here, signorina. I haven't balanced my own ledger yet," Dante growled.

He leaned out of the alcove, his breathing perfectly synchronized with his sightline.

Two heavy-grain rounds caught the lead Marcone hitman directly under the lip of his tactical helmet. The man collapsed instantly, his rifle firing a wild, erratic burst into the rusted corrugated metal roof above them as he went down.

"Target is armed! West sector, behind the generator!" a voice shouted through the fog.

"Flank them! Flush them into the open water!" another yelled.

Dante pulled back into the alcove, his mind working like a high-speed computer running combat telemetry. "They’re splitting up. One is coming down the eastern rail line to cut off the car; the other is pushing our front. We’re being pinned against the pier."

Isabella looked past his shoulder at the dark, choppy waves of Lake Como churning violently against the concrete drop-off just twenty meters behind them. "There’s no cover out there. If we run for the water, we’re targets in a shooting gallery."

"Then we don't run," Dante said, his eyes locking onto hers with a terrifying, level intensity that made the gunfire around them fade into a dull hum. "Can you handle a sidearm?"

Isabella’s jaw set, her eyes mirroring the exact lethal coldness he had seen in the greenhouse. "I am my father’s daughter, Mr. Rossi. I don't cry, and I don't miss."

Dante slickly pulled a backup compact pistol from his ankle holster and slapped it into her palm. "Nine rounds. Don't look for body shots. If they breach the corner, aim for the throat. I’m going to clear the eastern flank."

"Dante—" she called out, her voice catching for a split second as her fingers tightened around the cold steel of the weapon. "If you fall, the leash goes with you."

"Then keep your head down," he replied.

Dante dropped low, sliding out of the alcove into the thick, sulfurous smoke of the burnt gunpowder. He moved like a true ghost through the mist, his boots silent against the gravel as he rounded the rusted gears of the crane.

To his left, a Marcone operator was advancing systematically, his rifle raised to his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the alcove where Isabella was pinned.

Dante didn't use his gun. He closed the distance in two blinding strides, coming from the blind spot behind the man's right shoulder. He grabbed the barrel of the assault rifle, wrenching it upward as a violent burst of lead tore into the gray sky, while his right hand drove a heavy, steel-capped tactical pen directly into the soft flesh beneath the hitman's jaw.

The man choked, his eyes rolling back as Dante wrenched the rifle from his grip and threw his heavy corpse into the gravel.

The sharp, distinct crack of the compact pistol echoed from the alcove.

Dante spun around, his chest tightening as he sprinted back through the fog. He cleared the corner of the machinery housing, his rifle raised, only to stop dead in his tracks.

The third Marcone hitman was lying face down on the concrete, blood pooling from a jagged wound in his neck. Isabella was standing over him, her arms extended, her hands steady as she held the smoking compact pistol pointed directly at the center of the man's skull. Her silk dress was stained with white concrete dust and dark blood, but her face was completely clear, her breathing slow and controlled.

She slowly lowered the weapon, turning her dark eyes toward Dante as he stepped over the debris.

"I told you," Isabella said, her voice dropping back into that deceptive, razor-sharp whisper that sent a thrill of dark electricity down his spine. "I don't miss."

Dante looked from the dead hitman to the porcelain doll who had just become an executioner, a grim, satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He stepped forward, re-establishing the three-pace boundary even amidst the slaughter.

"The perimeter is temporarily clear, signorina," Dante said, his gravelly baritone vibrating in the damp air. "But the V8 engine is still idling, and the backup team will be here within five minutes when these men miss their check-in. We need to move."

"The Valeriano armor is gone, Dante," Isabella whispered, looking down at the bodies of her father's enforcers scattered across the pier. "There is nothing left to protect us from the wolves."

"Good," Dante replied, turning toward the idling black SUV. "Then it’s time we go back to the villa and show the King what happens when his asset decides to fight back."