Chapter 23 #3
Enzo moved before he realized it, taking a step toward the railing, as if ready to launch himself into the chaos below. A leap that would have easily killed him. Seven caught his arm hard, fingers digging into muscle, and gave a sharp shake of his head.
Enzo looked ready to argue—his jaw flexed, nostrils flaring—but Seven turned away before he could speak.
He slid out of the alcove, pressing flat against the rusted wall.
His pulse thundered in his ears, a low rush that matched the hum of whatever generators powered the meager lights below.
Every sound was amplified: the creak of metal, the drip of old rainwater, the uneven breath in his chest. It felt like every microscopic sound was played directly into a microphone, like there was no way they didn’t know he was there.
“I’ve never seen those boys before in my life,” Brioni swore. Her voice was too high, trembling. “They don’t even look old enough to drive.”
“We just come out here to get a little wasted sometimes, dude,” Elio muttered, letting his muscles go a little lax like they might believe he was already intoxicated.
“Yeah,” Ansel said, his tone flat with practiced boredom. “We’re out here all the time. You’re the one trespassing on our territory.”
“Your territory?” Grant repeated, his irritation slicing through his fake calm.
“Yeah, bro,” Ansel said, swaying on his feet, doing a perfect impression of a drunk kid. “We’re here all the time. That makes it ours. Finders keepers.” He giggled, the sound high and reckless.
Elio caught the cue, laughing too loudly, stumbling a little.
They had good instincts. Their act was good—too good—but they were improvising on a stage built over land mines.
Seven could see the tension in their captive’s shoulders, the way their grips on the guns were too stiff, too tight, ready to snuff out Enzo’s brothers before they even had a chance to live.
Caesar snorted, a slight accent surfacing—one Seven couldn’t place. “You’re awfully cocky for two boys who ain’t gonna live long enough to vote.”
Even from this distance, Seven saw Elio swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Still, the kid didn’t flinch. It was obvious they were trying to be brave. “Well, that sucks for you, ‘cause our mom has a bit of a temper.” He smiled, shaky but dangerous. “You’ll see.”
Seven felt it then—the shift in the air. The kind that comes right before violence, thick and electric, pressing against his skin like static before a storm. He wanted to shout, to pull them out, but he couldn’t move yet without blowing the whole gig. The fear in his throat tasted like iron.
Fritz let out a strange, rattling sound that Seven belatedly realized was a laugh. “Oh no,” he wheezed, “not your mom.”
“Do something or I will,” Enzo hissed into Seven’s ear.
He was talking to the others, not Seven, but he still took the command seriously.
Enzo’s voice had that low, dangerous edge that usually had Seven falling like meat off the bone.
It was a tone that meant he was about two seconds away from doing something dangerous.
“I’ve got it,” Seven said quickly, pulse thrumming in his throat. “I promise I won’t let them get hurt. Just…hang tight. Please.”
“Those are my baby brothers,” Enzo whispered, words thick.
“Trust me, please,” Seven breathed.
“He’s really good,” he heard Felix say.
He hoped that was still true. How long had it been since he’d fired a gun?
“You got this,” Zane whispered.
Seven took a slow breath, trying to steady the tremor in his hands. His palms were slick with sweat, and his mouth tasted like iron. The warehouse suddenly felt smaller, every echo sharper.
He unholstered his Glock in one smooth motion, thumbing off the safety. There was already a round chambered. He raised the gun, feeling the familiar tension in his shoulders, that deadly equilibrium between precision and panic.
Elio and Ansel weren’t tall, but Caesar and Fritz were short, squat bastards. There was just enough overlap to make his shot a nightmare. If he was off by even a millimeter, he wouldn’t be saving Enzo’s brothers; he’d be killing them.
“Yeah, our mother…Francesca Conti,” Ansel spit, clearly expecting the two men to quake at the name.
Instead, Caesar’s eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. “That cunt’s your mom? Sending her your bodies in pieces will be a pleasure.”
Ansel turned on him fast. Too fast. The bravado vanished, replaced by the reckless energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned what fear should feel like.
And then all hell broke loose.
Caesar hit the ground hard, already raising his gun toward Ansel. Fritz swung his weapon in the same instant, both barrels glinting under the sodium lights.
“Get down!” Seven roared. His voice cracked across the space like a gunshot of its own, the echo almost painful.
Brioni dropped first, then the boys hit the concrete just as Seven fired. Once. Twice. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, the recoil slamming into his arm, the muzzle flash lighting the warehouse in brief, violent snapshots.
Two screams followed, echoing off the steel rafters.
Then—crack.
A stray bullet zipped past so close he felt the heat of it before the pain. His cheek burned, hot blood cutting a slick line down his face, the coppery sting blooming instantly. The world tilted sideways, a high, piercing whine flooding his ear.
He staggered back, one hand braced against the rusted wall, the other gripping the gun tight enough to make his knuckles ache. The noise was chaos—boots pounding, voices shouting—but it was all distant, muffled beneath the relentless ringing.
The others surged past him, shadows and movement, heading for the stairs.
When he pushed forward again, vision swimming, he saw Elio and Ansel holding the discarded weapons, their hands shaking.
Or maybe that was just Seven. Fritz was on his knees, missing two fingers on his right hand, blood spraying in rhythmic spurts, like something out of a low-budget horror movie.
Caesar clutched his forearm, a red bloom spreading fast through his sleeve, his hand curled uselessly.
Seven’s breath came short and ragged. Every heartbeat made the cut on his face throb, each pulse echoing in the hollow where his hearing used to be. He’d been aiming for the gun—he knew that—but Caesar had moved. It didn’t matter now. Both men were on the ground, writhing and howling.
Avi and Asa disarmed the teens, who looked a little dazed, though he could practically smell the way they thrummed with adrenaline.
Seven reached the top of the stairs just as Enzo brought his boot down on Caesar’s face.
The wet crack that followed was unmistakable.
The man’s scream rose, gurgling, then cut off.
Enzo turned to his brothers. “You fucking idiots.”
They stumbled back, expecting fury, punishment, but instead, Enzo pulled them both into a crushing hug. His shoulders shook once, just once, before he steadied.
Relief washed through Seven, dizzying and warm. They were good. Everything was good. It was fine. They were all gonna be fine. And then the floor shifted. No, not the floor. His balance. The whole world tilted on its axis like gravity had suddenly taken a vacation. What the hell was wrong with him?
He felt the edge of the stair catch the back of his boot, then the freefall. Metal bit through fabric, meeting his body like a crowbar. The air left his lungs in a ragged gasp, the world spinning in a wash of light and noise and pain.
“Seven!”
Enzo’s shout broke through the ringing in his ear, the sound stretched and distorted but unmistakable, like he was hearing him from the bottom of a swimming pool.
He hit the concrete hard, the impact knocking every ounce of air from his chest. His vision went white at the edges, the taste of blood thick in his mouth, the faint echo of Enzo’s boots pounding toward him the only thing tethering him to the world.
Then nothing.