Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PIETRO
The wind off the lake is a blade against my skin, carrying the stench of rust and rot. A fitting graveyard.
Liam’s voice crackles in my ear. "Two minutes." His tone is clipped, professional.
An island of calm in the rage churning in my gut. My fingers find the magazine of my Beretta, ejecting it, confirming the full load for the third time.
A round in the chamber. Backup mags pressing against my ribs. The knife heavy on my thigh. Each piece of gear is a prayer. A promise. There is no margin for what Declan has done.
The armored SUV rocks as we navigate another pothole. Eight of my best soldiers packed into two vehicles, rifles between their knees, faces painted with shadows and determination. Former military, every one of them. Men who understand the difference between a job and a mission.
This is a mission.
"Target building in sight." Our driver, Russo, keeps his voice level. The warehouse looms ahead—three stories of corrugated steel and concrete, exactly as Connor's intelligence described. Loading dock facing us. Personnel door on the east side. Roof access via external fire escape.
My phone vibrates. A text from Lorenzo. Nico has an ambulance ready. Giulia is praying.
I pocket the phone. Let her pray. Let them all pray. Words won't bring Nora back. I will. Or I'll die trying.
"Sartori team in position." I key my radio, switching to the encrypted channel we're sharing with the Irish. "Awaiting confirmation."
Static. Then Connor O'Sullivan's voice, rougher than mine, weighted with something that might be regret. "Irish team on roof. Six hostiles visible through skylights. Two patrolling main floor, four clustered near the office."
"Copy. No sign of the package?" The word 'package' feels like acid on my tongue. Her name is a shard of glass in my throat, I can't speak it over the radio. It’s too sacred for this.
"Negative visual on package. Likely basement level based on building specs."
"Ninety seconds to breach." I force my voice steady. "Remember the rules of engagement. Anyone not wearing our colors or Irish green is hostile. No prisoners. No hesitation."
"What about Declan?" Marco asks from the seat behind me.
"Declan's mine."
The warehouse grows larger as we creep forward, headlights off, engines barely purring. Through night vision, I watch two figures move past a second-floor window. Casual. Unaware. Dead men walking.
Connor’s voice returns, confirming his charges are set. Every instinct I have screams that trusting this man is suicide. The man who cast her out.
"Thirty seconds." I shoulder my rifle, feeling the familiar weight settle against my chest. "Liam, take point on breach. I'm second through."
"Sir, protocol says—"
"Protocol says I should be in a boardroom making deals, not in tactical gear. Yet here we are." I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Second through, Liam."
He nods once. There's no arguing with me tonight.
The SUV glides to a stop twenty meters from the loading dock. Perfect angle for cover fire if needed. I scan the building one last time. Three entry points. Two teams. One objective.
Get Nora. Kill anyone in the way.
"All teams, this is Sartori actual," I say, my finger sliding from the guard to the trigger. "Light them up." For a half-second, silence.
A trio of blasts from the roof rips the sky apart. Glass and steel rain down inside as the concussion hits our SUV. Through the smoke, I see them—Connor's men, dropping on ropes into the heart of the chaos.
"Breach!" Liam is a blur of motion, slapping a charge on the loading dock door. The world turns white and deafening. He's through the mangled opening before the thunder fades.
I follow him, rifle up, world narrowing to iron sights and targets. The warehouse interior materializes through thermal imaging—concrete pillars, shipping containers, and there—movement.
My first shot takes the guard center mass. He drops before his brain processes the breach. Liam double-taps the second hostile as he spins toward us, automatic weapon half-raised.
"Clear left!"
"Clear right!"
We pour through the breach, a tide of black tactical gear and violence.
The air is thick with cordite and screams. Above, the chatter of automatic fire is a death rattle.
Connor's men are earning their keep. "Contact!
" Marco's rifle barks. Concrete chips near my head, the whine of a ricochet too close.
I don't flinch. There's no fear. Only a destination.
I pivot around a container, catch two of Declan's soldiers trying to flank. The Beretta jumps in my hand—controlled pairs, textbook execution. They crumple, blood spreading across dirty concrete.
"Basement access, northwest corner!" Russo's voice cuts through the chaos. "Metal door, single guard!"
I move before the words finish, boots pounding across oil-stained floor. The guard sees me coming, fumbles for his weapon. Too slow. My knife opens his throat before he can scream. He drops, gurgling, hands trying to hold in what's already gone.
The door's locked. Of course it is.
"Breaching charge!" Liam appears at my shoulder.
Gunfire intensifies behind us. Someone screams. More glass shatters. Smoke thickens, making shadows dance.
"Hurry up!" I snap, even though Liam's hands work with practiced efficiency.
"Ten seconds!" He backs away, pulling me with him.
Those ten seconds stretch like hours. Each heartbeat hammers against my ribs. Each breath tastes of cordite and blood. Somewhere below us, Nora waits. Hurt. Captive. But alive.
She has to be alive.
The charge blows the door off its hinges. I'm through before the smoke clears, rifle light cutting through darkness. Wooden stairs descend into black. The smell hits immediately—mold, piss, fear.
And blood. Fresh blood.
"Pietro, wait—" Liam starts, but I'm already moving.
The stairs groan under my weight. Concrete walls close in, painted with decades of water damage and decay. A single bulb flickers at the bottom, casting sick yellow light.
I hear her before I see her.
"—told you he'd come." Her voice, cracked and raw but defiant. "Told you—"
The sound of the slap is a physical blow.
It travels up the stairs and detonates inside my skull.
A white-hot spike of rage obliterates everything—the plan, the soldiers, the noise.
There is only the sound of her pain and the man who caused it.
I don't descend the last five steps, I fall, landing in a crouch at the bottom, rifle already shouldering. And I see her.
Nora. Chained. A canvas of bruises and blood. Her face is a ruin, one eye swollen shut. Her right hand... fuck. The angle of her fingers is wrong, a mangled horror that sends bile into my throat. But her good eye finds mine. And in that one defiant point of light, she’s still there. Still fighting.
Declan stands behind her, pistol pressed to her temple. His hands shake. Sweat stains his expensive shirt. He looks nothing like the collected killer who took her three days ago.
"Drop the weapon, Sartori."
I keep the rifle trained on his head. At this distance, I could paint the wall with his brains before his finger twitches. But the barrel against Nora's skull changes the math.
Declan's breathing too fast, pupils dilated. The gunfire upstairs has stopped. His men are dead. He knows it.
"Let her go, Declan," All my rage is packed into a single, cold point aimed at his heart. "You're already dead. You just haven't hit the floor."
"Then maybe I take her with me." He presses the gun harder against her temple. She doesn't flinch.
"You could try," I say, the words a promise. "But for every bruise on her face, I'll take a piece of you. For every broken finger, I'll take a limb. I will keep you alive long enough to regret being born."
"You're all talk, Sartori. Just like your brother was before—"
The rifle shot cuts him off mid-sentence.
Declan's shoulder explodes in red. His gun flies across the room as he staggers back, screaming.
I'm on him before he hits the ground. My fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head back. Again. Again. Bone cracks under my knuckles. Blood sprays across concrete.
"Pietro." Nora's voice pulls me back. "Pietro, stop."
I freeze, fist raised for another blow. Declan whimpers beneath me, face already unrecognizable. Not dead. Not yet.
I leave him bleeding and rush to Nora. The chains are heavy, industrial. The lock simple but solid. I pull out my knife, work it into the mechanism.
"Your hands—" I start, seeing the damage up close. Three fingers definitively broken, possibly more damage I can't see.
"Later." She meets my eyes as the lock clicks open. "Just get me out."
The chains fall away. She tries to stand and sways. I catch her, gathering her against my chest as gently as possible. She makes a sound—pain or relief, maybe both.
"I've got you." I breathe in her scent beneath the blood and fear. Still her. Still mine. "You're safe."
"I knew you'd come." She presses her face into my vest.
Footsteps on the stairs. I spin, shielding Nora, but it's Connor O'Sullivan who appears. He stops at the bottom, taking in the scene.
"Nora." The name breaks on his lips.
She turns her head slightly but doesn't leave my arms. "Dad."
They stare at each other across years of mistakes and betrayal. Connor's eyes catalog her injuries, his jaw working.
Connor's voice is gravel. "The building's clear. No casualties on our side." His eyes are on Nora, then on me, then on the pathetic thing bleeding on the floor. "And Declan?" he asks, my gaze following his. Declan claws at the concrete, leaving a wet, red trail.
"I have plans for him." I say. Already knowing that I'll take my time.
"Medical team's three minutes out," Liam says from the stairs. "We should move."
"Ask someone to grab this piece of shit. I want him put in a warehouse and no one touches him until I get there."
I return to Nora, lifting her carefully. She wraps her good arm around my neck, broken fingers cradled against her chest.
Connor steps aside as we pass. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for her but doesn't. "Nora, I—"
"Not now." She doesn't look at him. "Maybe not ever. I don't know yet."
He nods, accepting the rejection. "I'll be in Chicago if you change your mind. When you change your mind."
We climb the stairs slowly, Nora's breathing labored. Each step hurts her. I feel it in how she tenses, how her grip tightens. But she doesn't complain. Doesn't ask to stop.
The main warehouse floor looks like a warzone. Bodies scattered between containers. Blood pooling on concrete. My men and Connor's already loading weapons, preparing to sanitize the scene before cops arrive.
"Holy shit." Marco sees Nora's condition, his face going pale. "Boss, is she—"
"She's going to be fine." I say it for her benefit as much as his. "Where's that medical team?"
"Pulling up now."
Sure enough, an ambulance screams into the loading dock, Nico jumping out before it fully stops. He's got a stretcher ready, two paramedics behind him.
"No hospitals," I tell them as they ease Nora onto the gurney. "Private clinic. The one in Wilmette."
"Already arranged." Nico's examining Nora's injuries with clinical efficiency. "Orthopedic surgeon's standing by for those fingers."
"I'm riding with her."
Connor appears as they load her into the ambulance. Our eyes meet over the chaos. Tomorrow we'll be enemies again. The Irish and Italian conflict will resume. Business will continue.
But tonight, we saved her.
"Thank you," I murmur, the words costing me more than he'll ever know.
He nods once. "Take care of her. She chose you. Make sure she doesn't regret it."
"Never."
The ambulance doors close. I sit beside Nora as we pull away, her hand in mine, broken fingers splinted against her chest.
Through the back windows, I watch the warehouse recede. Connor's men are already placing incendiary charges. In an hour, there'll be nothing left but ash and questions.
"Pietro?" Nora's voice pulls me back.
"I'm here."
"Declan's dead?"
She is in shock.
"Very. Soon."
"Good." She closes her eyes. "Now I can sleep."
"Sleep, tesoro. I've got you."
She squeezes my hand once before the exhaustion takes her. I watch her breathe, count each rise and fall of her chest. Alive. Damaged but alive. Safe.
The war with the Irish might continue, but this battle's over. And for the first time in months, that's enough.