Chapter 11
A Plan Takes Shape
The dim light of the store flickered, casting long shadows across the room as Matteo and Aldo sat at the rickety wooden table. The scent of damp wood and old dust lingered in the air, a stark contrast to the sharp tang of blood that still clung to Aldo’s shirt. Maps, blueprints, and scribbled notes lay spread before them, their chaotic arrangement a mirror of their frayed nerves and the unspoken weight between them.
Aldo’s shoulder was still raw, the wound slowly healing beneath the bandages, but he refused to let it slow him down. His face was drawn, his movements stiff, but his eyes burned with a fierce, unrelenting determination.
Matteo leaned over the table, his fingers tracing the outline of a heavily fortified compound on one of the blueprints. Russo’s stronghold in Calabria was a fortress, a labyrinth of steel and concrete wrapped in layers of security.
High walls, surveillance cameras, and guards stationed at every possible entry point. The idea of an infiltration was reckless, suicidal, even. But they had no other choice. Russo had been pulling the strings from the beginning, orchestrating the chaos that had nearly gotten them killed. If they didn’t take him out, they’d never be free.
“We need to hit him where it hurts,” Matteo said, his voice low but resolute. “If we can get inside, take him out, we dismantle his operation in one move.”
Aldo nodded; jaw clenched as he studied the blueprint. “Easier said than done. The place is a damn fortress. Guards at every entrance, motion sensors, and God knows what else, even if manage to get in, how do we get out?”
Matteo tapped a finger against the eastern perimeter of the compound. “We’ll need a distraction. Something big enough to pull most of the guards away from the main building.”
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Aldo’s lips. “Explosives?”
“Explosives, I have a contact that could get us all we need to make them. Enzo has worked with him before.” Matteo confirmed, mirroring his smirk. “We set them off near the east gate. That should draw enough attention to give us a window to slip out in case they discover us.”
Aldo leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at his wound. “And say we do get in? Russo’s not going to be sitting around waiting for us. He’ll have his own security inside.”
“We move fast,” Matteo said, mind already racing through every possible contingency. “Take out anyone in our path and get to Russo before he has time to react. We’ll need to split up, cover more ground that way.”
Aldo shot him a look, dark and skeptical. “Splitting up sounds like a good way to get killed.”
“Staying together sounds like a good way to get cornered,” Matteo countered. “We meet at Russo’s office. It’s the most secure room in the compound, which means that’s where he’ll be.”
Aldo studied him for a long, excruciating moment, the tension between them so palpable it felt like the air itself had grown heavy, thick enough to suffocate. Matteo could see the gears turning in Aldo’s mind, the sharp calculation, the flicker of hesitation that betrayed the storm beneath his stoic exterior.
This wasn’t just about the mission anymore. It was about trust; trust that had been forged in the crucible of danger, tested over and over again, built not on words but on blood and necessity. It was a fragile thing, that trust, and Matteo knew it could shatter as easily as it had been formed. Finally, Aldo exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound of reluctant acceptance, and gave a single, curt nod.
“Fine,” Aldo said, his voice low and gravelly, like the growl of a cornered animal. “But if you get yourself killed, I’m not carrying your body out of there.”
Matteo smirked, though there was no humor in it, just a dry acknowledgment of the grim reality they were facing. “Noted.”
The room fell into a tense silence as they turned their attention to the task at hand. They spent the next hour hunched over the table, refining the plan with meticulous precision.
Matteo’s hands moved swiftly, sketching out a rough timeline on a sheet of paper, marking the key moments with sharp, decisive strokes: when to plant the explosives, when to breach the compound, when to regroup. His mind was a whirlwind of strategy, every detail scrutinized, every possible obstacle anticipated. He was a man who thrived on control, on knowing every variable, and yet there was one variable he couldn’t quite account for; Aldo.
Aldo, for his part, leaned over the table, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the blueprints. He contributed his intimate knowledge of Russo’s habits, the security protocols he’d memorized, and the compound’s labyrinthine layout. He knew it well, having spent a summer there years ago with his father, back when the world had seemed simpler, when the lines between right and wrong hadn’t been so blurred.
His voice was steady as he pointed out weak points in the defenses, but Matteo could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched slightly as he spoke. It was clear that revisiting those memories was costing him something, though he’d never admit it.
The air between them crackled with an energy that had nothing to do with strategy. Every accidental brush of their hands over the papers, every fleeting glance that lingered a fraction too long, only amplified the tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for days. It was a dangerous thing, this unspoken pull between them, a force neither of them could afford to acknowledge but couldn’t quite ignore.
At one point, Aldo shifted in his chair, his face tightening as the pain in his shoulder flared again. Matteo, without thinking, reached for him, his hand closing around Aldo’s uninjured arm to steady him. The contact was electric, a jolt that seemed to reverberate through both of them. Their eyes locked, and for a brief, breathless moment, the weight of everything else, the mission, the danger, the past, faded into the background. There was only this: the charged, unspoken thing between them, a battle neither of them was ready to fight.
Aldo’s breath hitched, and Matteo could see the conflict in his eyes, the way they darkened with something that looked like longing and frustration in equal measure. Matteo forced himself to pull away, his fingers curling into a fist as he cleared his throat, trying to dispel the tension that had settled in the room like a storm cloud.
“You should rest,” Matteo said, his voice rougher than he’d intended, betraying the effort it took to maintain his composure.
Aldo’s smirk was weary but knowing, as if he could see right through Matteo’s facade. “I’ll rest when Russo’s dead.”
Matteo didn’t argue. Instead, he turned back to the blueprints, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand. Because if he thought too long about the way Aldo had looked at him just now, like he wasn’t sure whether to push him away or pull him closer, he might not be able to keep pretending it didn’t matter. And that was a risk he couldn’t afford to take. Not now. Not when so much was at stake.