Domenico
The old theater sits on the edge of Hell's Kitchen like a relic from a forgotten time.
Dusty, unwanted, and damn cold. If the wind gets any sharper, it might cut straight through my suit.
I stand outside on the grimy sidewalk with Rafe, Leo, Emilio, Matteo, Sal, and a half dozen of our best men.
Waiting for the Albanians to show. It's the kind of place that feels like a trap, but Sal insists we hear Adrian out.
"They’re not coming," Rafe says, glaring at the old glass doors.
Leo cracks his knuckles, restless. "When they show their coward asses, I’m putting a bullet in each of them."
Emilio huffs from his corner, tucked in the shadows.
The old man had better be right about this. The waiting will drive me insane. And Matteo doesn’t help.
"They show, or they don’t," he shrugs. "Who cares?"
His coin catches the light, spinning between his fingers. I catch him watching me, a smirk plastered across his face. We don’t like this. Any of us. But if Adrian was willing to share that Besiana’s been spying on us, he might spill other important truths. We can’t ignore him. Even if it costs us.
"We go inside," I say, my words clipped and final. “They might be there.”
We pass through the foyer, and the moment we step into the theater, I know something’s wrong.
It’s too quiet. Too pristine for a place that’s supposedly been shuttered for decades. The chandeliers are intact. The velvet curtains dustless. And the air—it smells like fresh polish.
Rafe flanks my left, jaw tight. Emilio follows behind, hands loose near his sidearm. Matteo, two steps behind him. All Rosetti men. All armed. None relaxed.
“This was your idea,” Rafe mutters under his breath.
“It was their invitation,” I correct. “I just said yes.”
“Same thing,” he says. “If we die here.”
I don’t answer. I scan everything. Balcony seats. Stage rigging. The long velvet aisle splitting rows.
Two Albanian men stand near center stage, dressed like diplomats. No visible weapons. Adrian Dushku is seated in the front row, casual, like he’s watching a rehearsal. His legs crossed. His smirk surgical.
Heat rises behind my eyes, but I keep my face neutral.
“Domenico,” Adrian says, rising slowly. “You made it.”
“Our last peace treaty didn’t go so well,” I say, forcing my thoughts not to linger on Besiana, “but we’re willing to hear what else you have to offer.”
“No peace talks tonight,” he says, smiling. “Just closure.”
That’s when I hear it—the soft click of a bolt sliding home. Not near us. Above us.
The balcony.
I glance up—subtle, a fraction of a second—and I see the reflection off a scope, half-shielded by the curtain. Another shadow shifts near the stage lights.
They came armed. They came ready. And they think we’re here to die.
“Rafe,” I say, voice low. “Back door?”
“Blocked.”
Of course it is.
Adrian spreads his arms like a host at a gala. “Please. Sit. We’ve prepared everything.”
I step forward, slow, deliberate, into the light cast by the dusty chandeliers.
“You always did like theatrics,” I say.
“And you always liked pretending you were different from the rest of us,” he replies, tone cool. “But you’re not, Domenico. You’re just better dressed.”
My fingers flex at my sides.
“So,” I say. “Is this the part where you talk us to death?”
That’s when the spotlight snaps on—blinding, hot—and the first shot rings out.
It misses me by an inch. Hits the stage wall behind.
The second bullet grazes my ear before I even hear the shot. Dust explodes around me, and my instincts kick in.
“Rafe—” I shout.
He’s already moving, looking for an exit.
Emilio pulls out his Glock. Matteo flips a row of chairs for cover. Gunfire erupts from the balcony, deafening in the dome of the theater.
I tackle Adrian to the floor—not to save him, but to pin him. My knee drives into his chest as chaos swells around us.
“You brought us here to die?” I growl. “Then why am I still breathing?”
Adrian’s grin is bloody. “Not for long.”
Another shot cracks past my ear. I drop him and roll behind the front-row seats. They splinter under fire. Rafe takes out a shooter on the left balcony. Emilio’s bleeding from the shoulder but still firing.
"They set us up!" Leo's voice rises above the chaos. He's by the door, shooting back with Emilio.
"Fucking knew it!" Rafe growls. His eyes are ice-blue and furious as he pops off two shots at a cluster of Albanians on the balcony. "You believe Adrian now?"
I glance at Sal, who's hiding behind a column. He nods, grim and pissed, then takes a shot that catches one of the bastards in the shoulder.
A dozen Albanians. The rat bastards had the whole place covered.
Emilio and Matteo are already across the theater, taking cover near the stage. Matteo’s got his back to the stairs, firing at the balcony. His coin clinks against the floor, forgotten.
Emilio shouts, landing a clean shot at an Albanian popping up from behind the curtains.
Leo stays by the entrance, cracking off rounds and swearing at anything that moves. "Where the fuck is our backup?" He ducks as a bullet whizzes past his head.
I look for the men we brought. Two are down, and the rest are huddled by the back wall, shooting blindly.
A sharp pain flares in my side. I press a hand to it. Warm and wet. Not life-ending, but a message. I grit my teeth and lean out just enough to put a bullet in the nearest bastard.
This is a message, alright. But I’m not fucking listening.
"We doing this or what?" Leo shouts from the entrance, his voice carrying over the gunfire. "Get those assholes!"
I make a decision. "Rafe!" I call. "Balcony!"
Rafe doesn’t need more than that. He pulls a magazine from his coat pocket, slams it in, and starts firing in short bursts.
I catch my breath, focusing on the nearest group of Albanians. One of them pulls back, injured. It sends a ripple through the others.
I smile, low and mean. That’s what I want to see.
"Don’t let up," I say, reloading. My side burns. The thought of Adrian’s smug, ghost-face burns worse. "I want them bleeding!"
There’s a loud crash as Emilio’s bullet hits one of the light fixtures. It drops, taking out two Albanians in its fall.
"You heard him," Rafe yells. "Bleeding, then dead!"
Rosetti men have pushed up toward the front. They fan out, pinning down the Albanians behind the curtains. I watch as one of our guys goes down, then another. Three more pick up the slack.
"Fuck!" Leo shouts as his gun jams. He throws it to the ground and draws another from the inside of his coat. "Come out, you Dushku pieces of shit!"
He’s red in the face, as usual. Impatient and pissed, as usual. I let out a breath, aiming at the balcony again.
"Moving in!" Rafe yells. "Keep them busy!"
The Albanians duck under his fire, pulling back into the shadows.
"Dom!" Matteo calls from the stage. "Want the honors?"
"Be my guest!" I shout back. I’m closer now, side by side with Sal.
He looks at me. At my bloody hand on my bloody side.
"We’ll talk later," he says. "Handle it."
I signal for Matteo and Emilio to follow as I push forward. Matteo goes low, Emilio goes high, and I take the middle. I fire as I go, aiming for anything that moves.
The Albanians don’t know what hit them.
Rafe’s on the balcony, Leo’s closing in from the entrance. The bastards have nowhere to go.
The theater's not so cold anymore. It’s filled with sweat and the smell of gunpowder. Blood and bodies, too. We’re closing in. Then I hear it: A few shouted words in Albanian. The smart ones decide to live.
Suddenly, a deafening blast rings out, shaking the theater to its core. I'm thrown off my feet and land hard on the marble floor. The world blurs as dust and smoke fill the air. My ears ring, but through the haze, I hear shouts and screams — the unmistakable sounds of panic.
"Dom!" Rafe's voice cuts through the chaos.
I try to respond, but the air is knocked out of my lungs. I cough violently, tasting blood. My side throbs with a new intensity.
"What the fuck was that?" Leo's voice this time, sounding too distant.
The smoke clears slowly, revealing a sight that freezes my blood. The theater is in ruins — parts of the ceiling have collapsed, blocking the exits. Some Albanians are pinned underneath debris, but others are using the confusion to regroup and retaliate.
My men... our men, are caught off guard. We're exposed and outnumbered now. If we survive this, it will be a fucking miracle.
Amid the smoke and dust, a figure emerges from the back door. A slim silhouette in a long coat. Besiana. My heart lurches as I watch her stride forward with an eerie calmness that doesn't belong on this battlefield.
She stops at a fallen Albanian and bends down, pulling a gun from his lifeless grip. She straightens up and surveys the chaos unfolding before her, her pale green eyes unreadable.
Amid this madness, time seems to slow down. I can see every detail etched on her face; the curve of her cheekbone, the way her hair falls over one eye, the panic she’s trying so hard to suppress.
A chill of uncertainty crawls up my spine. She's Dushku's daughter, his most prized weapon. But she's also been living with us. All this time we've been playing cat and mouse with trust...and I have no idea which side her allegiance truly lies on now.
As she steps into the light cast by a small fire, her gaze locks onto mine. There's no warmth there. She raises her gun.