All Chapters of The Mafia's Assassin (Don Russo): Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The hum of the transport’s engines was a low, steady thrum beneath their boots, the kind of sound that usually faded into the background after the first few minutes of flight. Tonight, the sound felt different—like a pulse counting down to something none of them could stop. It rattled faintly through the floor, through the metal frame of the seats, through the straps and buckles that held their weapons close.Sofia sat near the rear of the cabin, hands loose on her knees but mind coiled tight. Her gaze stayed fixed on the tactical map glowing on the wall beside the cockpit. The lines and shapes formed the path they were meant to take: drop two streets away from the target building, infiltrate through the service entrance, ascend to the private suite where Don Russo was believed to be staying, neutralise the target. The map was clean. Too clean. It didn’t account for shadows, for the unpr

The silence in the office pressed against Sofia like a weight. The ropes biting into her wrists were uncomfortable, but not unbearable. She could handle pain. What unsettled her was the stillness—the measured way both men regarded her, as though she were not their prisoner but a puzzle they intended to solve.Don Russo stood near the desk, pouring a drink into a crystal glass with the ease of someone who had no reason to rush. The sound of liquid splashing against glass was delicate, almost elegant, and it grated against the tension vibrating through her. Damian remained closer, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his dark eyes never leaving her face.“You’ve made quite an impression,” Russo said finally, his tone smooth, conversational, as if they were old acquaintances meeting over drinks rather than adversaries separated by rope and blood. “Most operatives who come after me are either reckless or desperate. You, Captain, are neither. You’re calculated. Precise.”“I’m loyal,” So

The warehouse was cold, draft seeping through cracks in the rusted metal walls. Dust clung to every beam and pipe, and the smell of damp wood mixed with gun oil hung heavy in the air. It wasn’t a base—just a hideout they’d stumbled into after scattering from Russo’s stronghold—but it was the only place where the squad felt safe enough to gather their breath.Safe was a relative word.Wyatt paced in tight, angry circles, his boots scuffing against the concrete. “We’re not cut out for this. They knew we were coming, they had us funneled, and now our captain—our captain—is gone.” His voice cracked on the last word.“She’s not gone,” Alex snapped, his jaw set hard. “She’s alive.”“You don’t know that.” Wyatt stopped pacing,

The night had been long, and dawn was still a smear of pale grey on the horizon when the squad finished their preparations. The warehouse floor was littered with scraps of paper, old maps pinned to crates, weapons laid out in uneven lines like offerings at an altar. It wasn’t much, but it was what they had.Alex stood tall before the table, his hand pressed flat against the map. His eyes burned with sleepless determination. “We move before the city wakes. Russo’s people will expect hesitation, but if we hit fast, we stand a chance.”Ronda rubbed at her temples, exhaustion tugging at her voice. “A chance. Not a guarantee.”“Nothing’s guaranteed anymore,” Becca cut in sharply. Her jaw was tight, her eyes colder than usual. “Sofia’s not sitting in that ma

Sofia woke slowly, not because her body demanded it, but because her mind refused to rest. Sleep came in fragments now—half-dreams stitched together with memory and doubt. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the Council chamber, Madam Lee’s sharp smile, Master Carlos’s unreadable gaze. Every time she opened them, she was reminded that she was no longer theirs.The room she was kept in had changed again. Russo did not believe in stagnation. He understood the psychology of captivity better than most—knew that control wasn’t about chains, but about comfort offered on his terms.The stone walls were gone, replaced by dark wood panelling and heavy curtains that muted the outside world. There was a bed now, real sheets, soft enough to make her skin crawl. A mirror hung on the far wall, placed deliberately so she couldn’t avoid seeing herself.She sat up slowly, muscles stiff, her arm still sore where the bullet had grazed her. Someone had cleaned the wound properly. Someone had cared wh