Chapter 13
The Infiltration
The first rays of dawn filtered through the cracks in the curtains, casting a soft, golden light over the room. Matteo stirred, his body warm and heavy with the lingering haze of sleep. For a moment, he forgot where he was, the events of the past few days slipping away like a distant dream.
Then he felt it; the solid weight of Aldo’s arm draped over his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the heat of his skin pressed against his own.
Matteo’s eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head to look at Aldo, who was still asleep beside him. In the pale light, Aldo looked younger, the hard edges of his face softened by the stillness of sleep. His dark hair was tousled, his lips slightly parted, and for the first time since they’d met, he looked… peaceful.
But as Aldo began to wake, the peace shattered. His eyes snapped open, and for a brief moment, they were filled with something raw and unguarded. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, his expression hardened, and he pulled away, sitting up abruptly.
“This was a mistake,” Aldo muttered, running a hand through his hair. His voice was rough, but there was an edge of panic beneath it.
Matteo sat up as well, his brow furrowing. “A mistake?”
Aldo didn’t look at him, his jaw clenched as he stared at the wall. “We can’t do this again. It’s too complicated. Too dangerous.”
Matteo reached out, his fingers brushing against Aldo’s arm. “Aldo…”
“Don’t,” Aldo said sharply, pulling away. He stood, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on with quick, jerky movements. “This can’t happen again.”
Matteo watched him for a moment, his chest tightening with a mix of frustration and hurt. Then, before Aldo could take another step, Matteo was on his feet. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing Aldo by the shoulders and spinning him around.
“Stop,” Matteo said, his voice low but firm.
Aldo’s eyes flashed with anger, but there was something else there too; fear. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice cracking. “This… us… it’s not who we are. It’s not what we do.”
“Maybe it should be,” Matteo shot back. He cupped Aldo’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You can’t keep pushing me away. Not after last night. Not after ...”
Aldo’s breath hitched, his hands gripping Matteo’s wrists as if to pull them away. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes searching Matteo’s face for something; answers, maybe, or reassurance.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Aldo admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Neither do I,” Matteo said, his thumb brushing over Aldo’s cheek.
For a moment, Aldo hesitated, the weight of his fears and doubts pressing down on him. Then, with a shuddering breath, he gave in. His hands slid up to Matteo’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and their lips met in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and relief.
It was different from the night before; softer, slower, but no less intense. Matteo poured everything he couldn’t say into the kiss, his fingers threading through Aldo’s dark hair, gripping just tight enough to make Aldo shiver.
Aldo responded in kind, his hands sliding down Matteo’s back, pressing them flush against each other. The warmth of Matteo’s body seeped into him, grounding him, overwhelming him.
Matteo tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against Aldo’s with an aching, deliberate slowness. The kiss grew hungrier, more urgent; teeth grazing, breaths mingling, a raw and unspoken need crackling between them like a live wire.
Mateo’s fingers slid beneath Aldo’s shirt, palms exploring the firm lines of muscle, tracing old scars with reverence. Aldo exhaled sharply against his lips, a shudder running through him as Matteo's touch burned through every last defense he had left.
He pulled back only enough to yank Aldo’s shirt over his head, letting it fall carelessly to the floor before his lips descended once more, trailing heated kisses along his jaw, down his neck, lingering at the pulse point where his heartbeat pounded wildly.
They didn't have time for more, they both knew it, the events of the day looming in the periphery, and yet, they seemed unable to pull apart.
When they finally did, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting together as they tried to steady themselves. Their chests rose and fell in tandem, the space between them charged, fragile, undeniable.
Neither of them spoke, but they didn’t need to. This was their truth, written in the heat of their skin, in the way they clung to each other as if the world would crumble if they let go.
???
Dressed in stolen tactical gear, Matteo and Aldo moved like shadows through the outer perimeter of Russo’s compound. The disguise had worked, so far. The heavy vests and dark fatigues they wore blended them into the ranks of the hired mercenaries patrolling the grounds, but one wrong step and the illusion would shatter. They had come too far to fail now.
The compound was a fortress of concrete and steel, high walls topped with razor wire, surveillance cameras tracking every movement. Floodlights swept the grounds in rhythmic intervals, momentarily illuminating the gravel paths before plunging them back into darkness. Matteo and Aldo used those pockets of shadow to their advantage, navigating through blind spots with silent precision.
The air was thick with tension, the scent of damp stone and oil lingering as they moved between patrol routes, every step calculated.
At a fork in the hallway, Matteo glanced at Aldo and gave a slight nod. It was time to split up. Matteo would plant the explosives as their distraction and exit strategy, while Aldo would carve a path through the guards, eliminating threats silently before they could raise the alarm.
Without a word, Aldo veered left, disappearing into the darkness. Matteo exhaled and turned right, keeping low as he hugged the walls. His destination was the east wing, where the structural support beams would amplify the force of the explosion, creating both panic and an escape route.
He moved quickly but carefully, skirting past two oblivious guards too deep in conversation to notice him slipping past. Their laughter echoed briefly before fading into the hum of distant machinery. Matteo’s fingers itched to take them out, but he forced himself to stay on mission; every second mattered.
In the utility corridor, Matteo crouched near a load-bearing column and retrieved the compact explosive from his vest. He worked fast, attaching the device and setting the timer with precise movements honed by years of experience. The tiny LED blinked red, a silent promise of chaos to come.
As he secured the last wire, the soft shuffle of boots on concrete made him freeze. Matteo pressed himself against the wall, heartbeat steady but muscles tensed. A lone mercenary rounded the corner, rifle slung low, gaze scanning, but not sharp enough.
Before he could react, Matteo struck. He lunged, one hand clamping over the guard’s mouth, the other driving a knife deep into his ribcage. The blade slid between the ribs with practiced ease, puncturing a lung. The guard choked on his own breath, body shuddering as his knees buckled. Matteo held him firmly, easing him to the floor without a sound. He yanked the blade free, wiped it against the dead man’s vest, and stepped over the body, his focus razor-sharp.
Meanwhile, Aldo moved like a phantom through the compound’s inner halls, each motion precise and deliberate. He pressed against the cold stone wall, listening for movement. A guard stood near an open doorway, shifting his weight as he scanned the corridor. Aldo waited, patience coiling in his muscles like a predator stalking prey. When the man turned, Aldo struck.
His arm looped around the guard’s neck, a swift, brutal twist snapping his spine. The body crumpled against Aldo’s chest before he lowered it silently to the ground. Another sentry approached from the opposite hall, his boots echoing faintly against the tiles.
Aldo flattened against the wall, gripping his knife, muscles coiled. As the guard passed, Aldo lunged, his blade slicing across the man’s throat in one clean motion. Warm blood sprayed across the wall as the body slumped, lifeless.
Aldo exhaled, rolling his shoulders before pushing forward. He was methodical, his kills surgical. Each step brought him closer to the rendezvous point, where Matteo would be waiting at the bottom of the grand staircase leading to the second floor, where Russo’s office lay beyond thick, reinforced doors.
Matteo had just finished arming the last explosive when he spotted Aldo emerging from the shadows near the central staircase. Their eyes met, unreadable but charged. The silent understanding between them was unwavering.
Matteo reached Aldo’s side, wiping his blade clean as he whispered, “Explosives are set.”
Aldo nodded, his gaze flicking up the staircase. “Russo’s office is up there.”
Without a word, they moved.
They ascended the staircase swiftly, keeping their footsteps light. The dim glow from wall sconces cast long, flickering shadows along the corridor, amplifying the tension coiling in their muscles. Halfway up, Matteo signaled to Aldo; four guards ahead. The men were stationed near the top landing, rifles slung loosely, their post likely routine. They looked relaxed, unaware that death was stalking them from the shadows.
Matteo and Aldo exchanged a glance before springing into action.
Aldo struck first, a blade flashing as he drove it deep into the neck of one guard. The man gurgled, hands clawing at his throat, but never got the chance to scream before Aldo twisted the knife and yanked it free. Blood sprayed against the stone wall as the body crumpled.
Matteo was already on the second guard, moving like a specter in the night, his arm snapping out and wrenching the man’s head sideways with a brutal crack. The third guard turned, alarm flashing in his eyes, hand darting toward his radio. Matteo’s knife silenced him before he could press the button, the blade embedding itself into his chest. He gasped, a wet choking sound, before his knees gave out.
The fourth, however, managed to spin away, staggering back as he raised his rifle. His finger slammed against the alarm panel before Aldo’s bullet found its mark between his eyes. His body collapsed, lifeless.
The blaring siren shattered the tense silence.
"Shit," Matteo hissed, yanking his knife from the dead man’s chest. Red lights strobed across the hallway, warning klaxons reverberating through the compound. Footsteps and shouts echoed below, guards mobilizing. "So much for time."
Aldo wiped his blade clean on his sleeve, his face set in grim determination. "No choice now. We move fast."
They sprinted the rest of the way, boots pounding against polished marble as they pushed through the double doors to Russo’s office. The heavy wood slammed open with a resounding crash.
Inside, the crime boss stood behind an ornate mahogany desk, a half-drained glass of whiskey abandoned beside a stack of neatly organized files. His dark eyes widened in shock as he took them in. He blinked, his mouth opening slightly, utterly taken aback. "What... what the hell is this?"
Aldo stepped forward, gun raised, eyes cold. "Drop the act, Russo."
Russo's hands lifted slightly in mock surrender, his brows furrowing. "I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this is insane."
Matteo scoffed. "Cut the bullshit. You know exactly why we’re here."
Russo’s confusion deepened, or at least, he made it seem that way. "No. I really don’t."
Aldo’s jaw clenched, his finger tightening against the trigger. "Vito’s villa. The massacre. That was you."
Russo’s eyes widened further, genuine or feigned, it was impossible to tell. "Vito’s villa? What the hell are you talking about?"
Matteo stepped closer, his knife glinting under the dim light. "The attack, Russo. The bloodbath you orchestrated. You tried to wipe out everyone in that room."
Russo shook his head vehemently, his breathing uneven. "I had nothing to do with that! I swear to God; I didn’t order that hit."
Aldo’s patience was thinning. "You expect us to believe that?"
"Believe whatever the fuck you want," Russo snapped, his voice rising slightly. "But I didn’t order that attack. I have no idea who did."
Matteo narrowed his eyes, studying him carefully. Russo was many things, a liar, a killer, a power-hungry bastard, but he didn’t seem to be bluffing. At least, not entirely.
Aldo, however, wasn’t convinced. "Then who did?"
Russo let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You think I know? If I did, I’d have dealt with them myself. I almost died in there!"
Matteo glanced at Aldo, tension crackling between them. The footsteps outside grew closer, the sound of guards preparing to storm in.
"We don’t have time for this," Matteo muttered.
Aldo turned his glare back on Russo. "Then we’ll make time."