Chapter 6 Matteo #2
The security monitors flash red.
My head snaps up. Adrenaline spikes directly into my bloodstream. Lungs lock. Chest pounds. Blood roars in my ears.
Camera four. The alley behind Il Corvo.
Two black SUVs roll to a stop out of sight of the main street.
The headlights cut. The doors open in unison.
Six men step out into the shadows. Tactical gear.
Suppressed automatic weapons. Face masks.
This is not a sloppy street crew. This is a highly trained extraction team.
The Bellantis are not waiting. They tracked the flash drive, or they tracked Reeves, or they guessed that the Costa underboss would take the collateral to his most secure location.
They are coming for the logs. They are coming for her.
My feral instincts take absolute control. The civilized man vanishes. I am a predator defending his territory. I am a monster defending his mate.
I stand up from the desk. I draw the Glock from my shoulder holster. I rack the slide. The sharp, metallic clack echoes in the silent office. A live round enters the chamber. I tap the earpiece sitting on the charging dock and slide it into my ear.
"Control, this is Matteo," I bark into the comms. "We have a breach. Six tangos, heavily armed. South alley entrance to Il Corvo. Lock down the perimeter."
"Copy that, Boss," the gravelly voice of my captain replies. "Deploying the vault crew. ETA three minutes."
"Three minutes is too long. I am going down."
I sprint out of the office. My boots make no sound on the marble. I cross the living room in long strides. I reach the master bedroom. I disengage the deadbolt and push the heavy oak door open.
The room is dark. Clara is sitting straight up in the bed.
She clutches the heavy duvet to her chest. Her eyes are wide, reflecting the ambient light from the city outside.
She senses the shift in the atmosphere immediately.
Her intelligence is one of the things that drives me insane with obsession.
She does not scream. She does not ask stupid questions.
"Matteo?" Her voice trembles, but her chin stays up.
"Get out of the bed." My voice is a harsh, guttural command. It leaves no room for argument.
She scrambles off the mattress. Her bare feet hit the floor.
She grabs one of my oversized black t-shirts from the chair and pulls it over her head.
The fabric swallows her curves, hanging down to her mid-thigh.
The sight of her wearing my clothes spikes a territorial possessiveness so sharply I lose my focus. Not now. Focus on the threat.
I cross the room in two massive steps. I grab her upper arms. My grip is tight, bordering on painful, but I need her to understand the absolute gravity of the next sixty seconds.
"Focus, Clara," I demand, forcing her gaze to lock with mine.
"I am looking at you," she fires back, her sassy defiance breaking through the terror. "You have a gun in your hand. You are terrifying. What is happening?"
"The Bellantis sent a tactical team. They are in the alley downstairs. They are trying to breach the restaurant."
Her face goes pale. The scent of her fear hits my nostrils, bitter and sharp. It fuels my rage to a boiling point. "My father..." she whispers, the realization crushing her. "They found us."
"They found a heavily fortified Costa stronghold," I correct her brutally. "They made a fatal error. They walked into my cage."
I pull her toward the walk-in closet. The closet is massive, lined with custom cedar shelving.
I push past the rows of tailored suits and reach the back wall.
I press my palm against a hidden biometric scanner.
A green light flashes. The entire back wall slides open, revealing a reinforced steel panic room.
"Get inside," I order, pushing her gently but firmly toward the dark opening.
She digs her heels into the carpet. She grabs my thick forearm. Her small hands contrast against my heavy, heavily inked arm. "Matteo, no. What are you doing? You cannot fight six men alone. Wait for your security team."
"My security team is three minutes out. Those men will breach the elevator shaft in one. I will not let them reach this floor. I will not let them get within a hundred yards of you."
"You are going to get yourself killed!" she shouts, the panic finally breaking through her composed facade.
I cup her face with my free hand. My thumb strokes across her cheekbone. The softness of her skin is a stark contrast to the violence humming in my blood. I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers.
"I am the underboss of the Costa family," I tell her, my voice dropping to a dark, lethal whisper.
"I am the monster they tell their children about to keep them in line.
They are not going to kill me, Clara. I am going to slaughter every single one of them.
Because they dared to come near what belongs to me. "
She swallows hard. Her eyes search mine, looking for a lie, looking for hesitation. She finds nothing but absolute, terrifying devotion.
"You belong to me," I repeat, the words a sacred vow. "And I protect what is mine. Now get in the vault."
She steps backward into the steel room. The panic room is stocked with water, emergency communications, and a separate ventilation system. It is impenetrable. I press the button on the wall. The heavy steel door begins to slide shut.
"Matteo!" she calls out, her voice cracking as the gap narrows.
"Stay quiet. Do not open this door for anyone but me."
The steel door slams shut. The heavy locking mechanisms engage with a series of loud, industrial clanks. She is sealed. She is safe. The relief washing over me is instantaneous, quickly replaced by pure, unadulterated violence.
I turn my back on the closet. I check the spare magazines in my holster. Three extra clips. Fifty-one rounds. More than enough to paint the alley red.
I walk out of the bedroom and head straight for the private elevator.
The elevator only stops at the penthouse and the private garage beneath Il Corvo.
I punch the code into the keypad. The doors slide open.
I step inside the mirrored box. The reflection staring back at me is not a man who bakes bread at two in the morning to calm his anxiety.
The reflection is a butcher. The silver hair at my temples highlights the hardened lines of my face. My dark eyes are void of mercy.
The elevator descends. The hum of the cables is the only sound. I tap the earpiece again.
"Control. Update."
"They breached the kitchen entrance, Boss. They are moving through the main dining room. Moving tactical. Moving fast."
"Cut the power to the main floor. Plunge them into the dark."
"Copy."
The elevator digital display drops. Floor five. Floor four. Floor three.
I roll my shoulders, loosening the heavy muscles of my back.
The gold chain taps against my sternum. The Bellantis sent these men to send a message.
They want the shipping logs back. They want to ensure their shipment of military-grade weapons arrives unobstructed.
They want to kill Arthur Reeves' daughter to tie up the loose end.
They are going to fail.
Floor two. Floor one.
The elevator shudders to a halt. The doors remain closed.
I lift the Glock. I aim the barrel directly at the center seam of the steel doors.
I regulate my breathing. In through the nose.
Out through the mouth. The smell of gun oil and cold metal is comforting.
It is the smell of my youth. It is the smell of the war I never truly escaped.
The earpiece crackles. "Power is cut, Boss. You have the green light."
I smash my fist against the manual override button.
The elevator doors slide open, exposing the pitch-black service hallway behind the main kitchen of Il Corvo. Total darkness. Absolute silence.
I step out of the elevator. The hunt begins.
I move silently through the corridor, my boots making zero noise against the industrial tile.
The layout of this restaurant is permanently burned into my memory.
I know every blind corner, every exit, every shadow.
I reach the swinging doors leading into the main kitchen.
I press my back against the stainless steel wall.
A faint scraping sound echoes from the dining room beyond. A combat boot scuffing against hardwood.
They are spreading out. They are searching for the access point to the penthouse.
"Check the private stairwell," a muffled voice commands in Italian. "Two men on the elevator shaft. Plant the charges."
Explosives. They brought C4 to blow the penthouse doors. A surge of protective fury ignites in my chest, burning hotter than a furnace. If I had waited upstairs, if I had let them plant those charges, the concussive force would have rattled the entire floor. It would have terrified her.
I swing around the edge of the doorframe.
The dining room of Il Corvo is massive, filled with dark leather booths and heavy oak tables. The moonlight bleeding through the front windows provides just enough illumination to cast long, distorted shadows.
Two men stand near the bar. One man is kneeling by the service elevator. Three more are sweeping the far booths.
I do not announce my presence. I do not give warnings. I am not a police officer. I am Costa.
I raise the Glock. I acquire the target kneeling by the elevator. I squeeze the trigger.
The suppressed weapon coughs. A sharp, lethal spit of sound. The hollow point round strikes the man directly in the base of his skull. He collapses forward instantly, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The C4 charge slips from his dead hands.
The second man near the bar spins around, raising his automatic rifle. He is too slow.
I pivot. Fire twice. Center mass. The rounds tear through his tactical vest. He drops his weapon, gasping for air as his lungs fill with blood. He hits the ground, thrashing in the dark.