Chapter 32 Cassio
Cassio
We are sitting right in the inlet of Holding Bay Four, hidden in the shadows of a massive, rusted cargo crane. Above us, the security cameras sweep the perimeter.
I picture Noemi sitting in my study, tracing the lines of the port map with her manicured fingernail.
She handed me the keys to this fortress on a silver platter.
She saw the blind spot the seasoned veterans completely missed.
My chest aches, a sharp grinding pressure against my ribs where the bullet tore through me, but a vicious, triumphant smirk pulls at my lips anyway.
She isn't just waiting for me to come home, she orchestrated the slaughter I am about to unleash.
The automated floodlights on the eastern dock flicker and reset. The camera lenses swivel smoothly toward the city streets, leaving the water entirely unmonitored.
"Go," I bark into the radio.
The engines roar. The three Zodiacs surge forward, slicing through the freezing water, straight into the belly of the beast.
A mile away, at the main gates of Pier Seven, Dante’s decoy convoy is putting on a hell of a show.
I can hear the distant, continuous crack of automatic gunfire and the concussive thump of grenades.
The night sky over the street entrance is lit up with orange flames.
Just as Noemi predicted, the Bratva committed its entire force to the bottleneck.
They are standing behind their reinforced shipping containers, staring down the avenue, expecting the Vellutini empire to break itself against their barricades.
They never look behind them.
The nose of my boat slams into the concrete piling of the dock. I don't wait for Matteo to secure the line. I grab the rusted metal rung of the ladder with my good left hand and haul myself up, my combat boots hitting the asphalt.
Thirty men swarm up onto the pier right behind me, moving with silent, deadly precision. We spread out, melting into the labyrinth of towering steel cargo containers.
Fifty yards ahead, the rear flank of the Russian army is completely exposed. They are clustered around crates of ammunition, shouting in Russian, firing blindly toward the street. They are so distracted by the noise of the decoy that they don't even hear us approaching.
I raise my M4, bracing the stock awkwardly against my uninjured left shoulder. I line the sights up on the back of a mercenary manning a heavy machine gun.
"Burn them," I order.
The docks erupt.
Thirty assault rifles open fire at point-blank range. The element of surprise is a butcher's best friend, and tonight, we are slaughtering pigs. The first line of Russians drops instantly, their bodies shredded by the crossfire before they even realize the enemy is standing right behind them.
Screams replace the shouts. Panic ripples through the Bratva ranks as the men at the front realize they are trapped. The barricades they built to keep us out are now the walls of their own execution chamber. Dante is pushing from the street, and we are pushing from the sea. There is nowhere to run.
I move forward, my finger held tight on the trigger.
The recoil is agonizing. Every time the weapon kicks, it sends a jagged spike of white-hot pain through my right pectoral.
I can feel the fresh blood seeping through my bandages, sticking to my shirt, but the adrenaline masks the worst of it.
I drop two men trying to turn their weapons on us.
Matteo takes down three more, tossing a frag grenade into a cluster of mercenaries trying to regroup behind a forklift.
The explosion sends shrapnel and body parts raining down on the slick concrete. The smell of cordite, blood, and saltwater is suffocating.
I don't stop moving. I am not looking for the foot soldiers. I am hunting the head of the snake.
I weave through the maze of blue and red shipping containers, stepping over groaning, bleeding men. The gunfire is deafening, a chaotic symphony of violence that I have orchestrated to perfection.
I turn a corner near the harbor master's elevated office and find exactly what I came for.
Ivan Volkov.
The Bratva Pakhan is a giant of a man, standing six-foot-five with shoulders like a fucking vault door.
His bald head gleams under the flickering dock lights, his face a roadmap of old scars.
He is barking frantically into a radio, trying to call in reinforcements that are never going to arrive.
Four of his elite bodyguards are frantically returning fire toward Orlando’s advancing Capos.
I don't use the rifle. I let it hang on its sling and draw the customized 1911 from my waistband.
I step out into the open. "Volkov!"
The Russian boss snaps his head toward me. The arrogant, untouchable superiority he wore at the peace summits vanishes, replaced by wide-eyed shock. He drops the radio.
His bodyguards turn their weapons toward me, but they are too slow. I put a hollow-point round through the eye of the man on the left, and Matteo, appearing like a ghost at my flank, shreds the other three with a sustained burst from his carbine.
Volkov is alone.
He realizes it instantly. He drops his empty assault rifle and draws a massive hunting knife from his tactical vest, the serrated blade gleaming maliciously in the rain. He looks at my arm strapped tightly in its sling, a cruel, mocking smile stretching across his scarred face.
"The wounded Italian prince," Volkov sneers, his heavy accent butchering the words. "You think you can take this port from me with one arm?"
"I don't need two arms to put you in the dirt, Ivan," I reply, raising my pistol.
I squeeze the trigger.
Click.
The gun jams. A faulty casing caught in the chamber.
Volkov doesn't hesitate. The giant lunges forward with astonishing speed, closing the ten feet between us before I can clear the jam. He swings the massive blade in a brutal, sweeping arc aimed directly at my throat.
I drop the useless gun and duck, stepping inside his guard. I drive my left elbow violently into his jaw. The impact rattles my bones, but the Russian barely flinches.
He grabs me by the throat with his massive, meaty hand, lifting me entirely off the ground. He slams me backward against the corrugated steel wall of a shipping container.
The impact is catastrophic.
My vision goes completely white. The sutures holding my chest together snap like cheap string. Agony explodes in my right shoulder, so intense it forces a strangled, pathetic gasp past my lips. I can feel the warm rush of blood pouring down my ribs.
"You die tonight, Vellutini," Volkov spits, his foul breath washing over my face. He rears his right hand back, preparing to plunge the serrated knife directly into my gut. "And then I take your pretty little wife and break her."
He made a mistake.
He mentioned her.
The blinding pain is instantly incinerated by a homicidal, psychotic rage. I don't give a fuck about honor. I don't give a fuck about fighting like a gentleman. This isn't a boxing match, this is the gutter, and I am going back to my wife.
As he brings the knife down, I bring my left knee up with every ounce of strength I possess. I drive it directly into his groin.
Volkov grunts, his grip on my throat loosening just a fraction. It’s all I need.
I drop my feet to the concrete. I don't try to block the knife. I grab the thick collar of his tactical vest with my left hand and pull him down, simultaneously lunging forward and sinking my teeth directly into the soft, exposed flesh of his neck.
I bite down like a feral dog. I taste the hot, metallic spray of his blood as my teeth tear through skin and muscle, aiming for the jugular.
Volkov screams, a high-pitched, horrified sound of genuine panic. He drops the knife, his hands scrambling to push my face away from his throat, but I hold on, tearing and ripping until I feel the artery give way.
I shove him backward, spitting a mouthful of his blood onto the asphalt.
The giant stumbles. His hands fly to his neck, trying desperately to stem the catastrophic, pulsing geyser of crimson spraying over his chest. He drops to his knees, his eyes wide, completely uncomprehending. He gurgles, drowning in his own hubris.
I walk over to the spot where he dropped his hunting knife. I pick it up with my left hand.
I stand over him. The great Bratva Pakhan, reduced to a bleeding, pathetic mess at my feet.
"You should have stayed in the shadows, Ivan," I whisper, my voice completely devoid of mercy.
I drive the serrated blade deep into the top of his skull.
His body goes entirely rigid for one second before collapsing sideways onto the wet concrete.
I stand there, my chest heaving, rain washing the Russian blood from my face. The agonizing pain in my shoulder is screaming at me to pass out, but I force my spine straight.
Matteo jogs around the shipping container, kicking a dead mercenary’s weapon away. He stops, taking in the gruesome scene. The torn throat. The knife buried in the boss's skull. He looks at me, his chest heaving, his eyes shining with profound respect.
"The dock is clear, Boss," Matteo reports, his voice hoarse from shouting over the gunfire. "Orlando’s men are sweeping the warehouses for stragglers. The remaining Bratva threw down their weapons. We took the port."
I pull the knife free with a sickening crunch and drop it onto Volkov's chest.
"Secure the perimeter," I order, leaning heavily against the metal container, my hand pressing against my bleeding chest. "Execute the prisoners.
Leave the bodies stacked by the main gates for the morning shift to find.
I want the Irish and the rest of the Commission to know exactly what happens when you cross my borders. "
"It’s done," Matteo nods, gesturing for a medic. "We need to get you back to Santoro. You’re bleeding out."
"I'm fine," I grit out, waving the medic off. I start walking toward the boats. Every step is an exercise in agony, but the only thing driving me forward is the mental image of the woman waiting in my study.
"Get me a car, Matteo," I command, not bothering to look back at the carnage. "I'm going home to my wife."