Taking Alexandra (Vicious Kings Mafia #1)

Chapter 1 Leone

Chapter One: Leone

The air in the war room stinks like adrenaline and sweat.

Someone smokes in the hallway, but no one inside dares light up.

Too much paper, too much ink, too much time spent recording every weakness the Castillo’s have shown us in the past six months.

I stand behind the head of the conference table, flanked by six men, all in black. Five soldiers. One logistics.

None are stupid enough to sit.

The wall clock ticks and it distracts me.

I stare at the map splayed across the table, corners weighted with sidearms. Most of the city is a sickly yellow, but sections of the map are stained a deeper gray where wear and tear has colored it.

A dozen red circles crawl down the east side, spidering from the city center to the docks.

Each is a safehouse. Each is a promise. One is supposed to hold the defector who nearly cost us the last shipment.

And one holds a girl.

Aurelio gave me no reason why we needed her, only that we must find her and bring her back.

My hands are folded behind my back. No need to brandish authority when my presence suffices. The soldiers stand at attention. Even Claudio, twice my size, stands as if I’ll snap his neck for breathing wrong.

The logistics man—Simone—clears his throat and gestures at the map.

“Our target is here. Via the alley. Third floor, rear stairwell. Intel confirms two hostiles, perhaps a third. The asset is marked in blue.” He slides a grainy printout across the table.

The defector’s eyes are blacked out, mouth open mid-yell.

Weak men always show their teeth when cornered.

I study the photo. “Vehicle?”

“Nothing on record. Intel says on foot. They might use bikes.”

I nod, then run my gaze across my team. Every man here killed someone for Aurelio. Most have killed for him, through me. His right-hand. His most trusted.

I measure the way they hold their arms, how their eyes dart but never rest on my face for more than a heartbeat. Only Carmelo meets my eyes. He wants violence, bloodshed, death.

I keep my voice flat. “No guns unless necessary. Suppressors. We need the asset alive.”

Beside me, Renzo taps the silencer of his Glock against the edge of the table. The tension shows on his knuckles in white lines, but the rest of him stays carved from marble.

“We hit the building from both ends,” I say.

“Two teams. I’ll take the lead with Claudio, Emilio, and Sandro.

The rest provide perimeter and extraction.

I want this finished in under three minutes.

” I look around the room. If shit goes sideways, Emilio and Claudio (the twins), are our best shots.

Aggressive psychopaths with no conscience.

“If the asset dies, you wish you died with him. Understood?”

Carmelo nods first, a deep, slow dip of his massive skull. The others follow.

I gesture to Simone, who produces a battered briefcase from under the table. Inside, comms, earpieces, zip ties. He passes them out like communion wafers. I slide an earpiece in, test the mic, then chamber a round in my Sig, slow and deliberate.

“The girl is in the safehouse across the street.”

Easy enough.

The rain intensifies outside. It thunders against the windows, making the interior fluorescent lights flicker. No one speaks. They watch me, waiting for the cue. I check my watch. 01:12. Always the best hour for ghosts and men who want to become them.

I signal, and we move out. Black gloves, black balaclavas, movements synchronized.

No wasted motion. I lead down the corridor, through the maze of locked doors and false walls that make up Aurelio’s headquarters.

I hear the thrum of engines idling in the lot before I see the SUVs—three matte-black beasts lined nose to tail.

A driver waits in each, the windows down enough to keep the glass from fogging.

I take shotgun in the first vehicle, Carmelo behind the wheel.

The others fall in line without orders. Sandro sits behind me, gun resting on his thigh, his knee bouncing a silent tattoo.

Emilio is last, eyes glued to the rearview, always expecting a tail even when there’s none.

The rest split between the other two vehicles.

The wipers fight the downpour, losing every third pass.

Streetlights pass in liquid blurs, the city empty except for dogs and shadows.

We hit the first intersection and Carmelo lets the engine idle, waiting for the other two SUVs to catch up.

In the silence, I can hear the men breathing, the rain drumming, the sticky click of Sandro’s tongue as he checks his teeth for the fifth time.

“Calmati,” I say, not turning around. “It’s a simple extraction.”

Sandro laughs under his breath. “When has it ever been simple?”

I crack the window. “Simple enough if you don’t fuck it up.”

He stops fidgeting.

We roll through side streets, the path mapped and memorized. By the time we pull within two blocks of the target, there is only one light on in the building. Third floor, as promised. My eyes trace the fire escapes, the street-facing windows, the alley behind.

I count the doors, the ways in and out. The muscle memory of a hundred similar nights tells me exactly how the place will feel, the way the steps will creak, how the paint will peel around the doorknobs.

“Five minutes,” I say, glancing at Carmelo. He grunts, but his hands are steady on the wheel. I click the mag in my Sig, check the safety, and glance at Sandro and Claudio. Both nod, eager or scared or both. Doesn’t matter.

The first SUV cuts its lights two houses down. The second and third park at opposing corners, sentries fanning out with umbrellas they’ll ditch once the shooting starts. Everyone knows what’s coming.

Inside the vehicle, we wait for the last call. Claudio murmurs into the mic, “Perimeter secure. No movement. All clear.”

I exhale, slow. “Let’s go.”

The doors pop open in sequence. The rain slams into us, but no one flinches. Hoods up, guns hidden beneath windbreakers. We move fast but not rushed, like men who own the night.

At the entry, Sandro plants a small charge beneath the buzzer panel and steps back. The pop is more static than sound, the lock gives, and we are inside. The acrid stench of cat piss makes my nose wrinkle. Our boots leave dark prints on cracked linoleum as we file in, one by one.

I lead up the stairs, counting breaths and floors. Carmelo is two steps behind, moving quiet for a man his size. The twins fan out as we reach the landing.

I press my ear to the door. Inside: TV noise, low voices, the high whine of a kettle on the boil. I raise a finger, and we stack up.

On three, I kick the door.

It splinters inward, and I hold my breath, assessing.

For a heartbeat, everything is still. I see the blur of two men at the table, one in a tracksuit, the other in his underwear.

The target is on the couch, wrists bandaged, eyes wide as plates.

He tries to stand, but Carmelo is faster.

He crosses the room in three steps and slams the defector into the wall, knocking the wind from him.

Sandro covers the other two, gun up, stance perfect. Emilio sweeps the kitchen, checks for strays. I take the room in from the threshold, my gun raised, finger slack on the trigger.

The man in the tracksuit makes a grab for the knife on the table. I don’t give him the chance. One shot through the shoulder drops him, blood blooming in a perfect spray across the wallpaper. He screams, but I ignore it.

“Shut up.” I snarl as he whimpers, clutching his shoulder.

The defector is gasping, face pressed to the wall. Carmelo doesn’t let up, grinding his forearm into the man’s neck until his feet leave the ground.

“Easy,” I say. “We need him breathing.”

Carmelo lets up, and the man sags, wheezing. I walk over, crouch to meet his eyes. He reeks of fear and cheap vodka.

“You know who I am?” I ask, soft.

He nods, eyes streaming tears.

“Good. Then you know how this ends if you resist.” I flick the barrel against his temple, gentle as a pat.

He nods again, shivering.

I gesture at Claudio. “Tie the others. If they move, break a finger for each word.”

He smiles and it stretches his face in a way that makes him look like a fucking clown. It’s never a happy smile.

Carmelo pulls the asset upright, pushes him to the door. I walk ahead, gun pointed at the ground. The hallway is silent except for the slap of wet footsteps. Sandro signals the all-clear; our exit is clean.

On the street, the SUVs idle with doors open. My team moves with the same quiet as before, loading the asset and the two extras into separate vehicles. I check my watch. Three minutes, twenty-seven seconds.

I allow myself a single breath of satisfaction, then close the door behind me.

The raid is a message. The real war will start when they read it.

Rain turns the street into a mirror, shards of city light reflecting in the black water.

I have the asset and my team ready to move, all engines running, when the call comes through.

Not a phone, not an encrypted line— the flat report of three suppressed shots from the building across the road. Close. Well-aimed.

One pings off the SUV and we move.

I flatten the defector into the floorboards, pinning him beneath my boot, then bark at Carmelo to stay down. My hand finds my sidearm before my brain even finishes identifying the threat.

“Castillo’s. They’ve been watching,” I say as the men nod, getting ready.

Every man in the convoy knows it’s coming sooner or later.

Sandro is already out of the SUV, moving low, sweeping his gun across the neighboring doors and windows. I clock six potential angles of attack. The shots keep coming, quick and disciplined, always in threes.