Chapter 14 – Azrael
Dawn creeps over the abandoned factory on Rome’s industrial fringe, a cold, gray light seeping through the shattered windows, casting long shadows across the cracked concrete floor littered with rusted machinery and broken glass.
A thin mist clings to the ground outside, curling around the skeletal frames of old cranes, muffling the faint echo of distant gunfire—war’s relentless heartbeat, still pounding even here, miles from the chaos of Ostia last night.
My boots crunch on the debris as I stand by a gaping hole in the wall, Beretta in hand, its grip slick with dried blood and rain from the warehouse fight.
My black jacket hangs heavy—damp, torn at the sleeve where a bullet grazed me, the sting a dull pulse under the bandage—and my knuckles ache, crusted with blood from smashing Salucci’s face, from the bodies I dropped to get us out.
Isolde’s beside me, her gun holstered, green eyes sharp and steady despite the exhaustion carving lines into her face, auburn braid tangled with mud and rain, her coat smeared with the grime of our escape.
Last night was a slaughter—Salucci pinned, his men bleeding out, the war breaking wide open around us.
I had my gun to his temple, ready to end it, to cut the head off the snake driving our families to tear each other apart, but he laughed—bloody, broken, spitting venom about how we’d played right into his hands.
We didn’t pull the trigger—not yet—because Cassian’s shout cut through: “More coming—move!” D’Angelo men, Varela traitors, mercenaries drawn by the bounties—fifteen million on me, twenty on her—stormed the place, and we ran, bullets shredding the air, blood soaking the mud as we fought our way out.
Now we’re here—hiding, breathing, alive for the moment—but the war’s not slowing; it’s growing, a beast feeding on itself.
I rake a hand through my damp hair, black strands sticking to my fingers, and turn to Isolde, her breath fogging in the cold, her stance tight, ready—like me, always ready now.
“He’s alive,” I mutter, voice low, rough from shouting over last night’s storm, my gaze flicking to her.
“Salucci—should’ve ended him, but we didn’t get the chance. ”
She nods slowly, her jaw clenching, green eyes narrowing as she stares out the hole, mist swirling beyond the jagged edge of the wall. “He’s a snake—always has been. He wasn’t scared, even with your gun to his head.”
“Yeah,” I growl, stepping closer, the cold seeping through my boots, my hand rubbing against her arm—a quick, grounding touch, her warmth cutting through the chill.
“Families bleeding out, bounties on us—fifteen on me, twenty on you. Emilio’s losing men, your father’s too, and Salucci’s sitting pretty, watching it burn.
We’re pawns—been pawns—and I’m fucking done playing their game. ”
Her lips twitch—a faint, fierce smile—and she turns to me, her hand resting on my chest, fingers curling into my jacket, steady despite the tremor I feel in her grip.
“Together,” she says, voice low, steel beneath the exhaustion, echoing our pact from the safe house, from every blood-soaked step since. “We figure it out—end it.”
“Leone,” I say, the name a bitter snarl on my tongue, my gut twisting as it clicks—Leone Salucci, his cold blue eyes, his smug fucking laugh last night, the pieces falling into place like a trap snapping shut.
“He’s been stirring this—pitting us against each other, weakening both sides.
With Emilio and Alessandro bleeding, he steps in—takes it all.
We’ve been dancing to his tune, Isolde—every shot, every dead man, his move.
He’s stepping in now—both sides weakened, blood on the streets, us on the run.
He’s got men—more than we thought. Last night wasn’t just bounty hunters—those were his men, organized, waiting. ”
Her eyes snap to mine—sharp, fierce, a storm of their own. “Then we take him. Cut the head off, end this for good. But we’re alone—Leonardo’s hunting me, Emilio’s after you, and our crews are scattered, bleeding out. What’s left to fight with?”
“Not alone,” I say, voice hard, stepping into her space, my hand sliding to her neck—a steady beat against the chaos.
“Cassian’s with us—grudging, but loyal. There’s others—men I trust, ones your father hasn’t turned, remnants we can pull together.
We’ve got to rally them—hit Leone before he solidifies control. ”
She nods—slow, resolute—her hand gripping my wrist, fingers digging in, a fierce anchor. “Remnants—my brother’s men won’t follow me now, not with the bounty, but there’s Marcella—she’s still in, knows people. Your crew—Cassian’s got pull, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, my mind racing, and I know he’s in, even if he doubts her. “He’s got men—loyal ones, scattered but alive. We’ve got a shot—small, bloody, but a shot. We gather them, hit Leone hard, end this before he buries us.”
The factory creaks—wind rattling the rusted beams, a low groan echoing through the hollow space—and I pull her closer, forehead pressing to hers, rain-damp skin warm against mine. “We’ve been pawns—fucking pawns—but no more. We’re taking the board, Isolde—together.”
“Together,” she echoes, voice fierce, her breath brushing my lips, and it’s a vow—steel forged in blood, betrayal, and the war tearing everything apart.
The distant gunfire rumbles again—closer now, a reminder of the chaos we’re running toward—and I know this is it: Leone’s rising, our families are weakened, and we’re the only ones left to stop him, with whatever scraps we can muster.
***
Late afternoon paints the outskirts of Rome in a gray wash, intermittent rain spitting from a sky heavy with clouds, the distant hum of chaos—gunfire, shouts, the low rumble of collapsing order—carried on the wind as I steer the car north toward Viterbo.
The engine growls low, tires crunching over gravel and mud, the windshield streaked with rain and grime, blurring the world outside into a haze of gray and green.
Isolde’s beside me, gun resting on her thigh, green eyes scanning the road ahead, her auburn braid still tangled, coat smeared with the blood and mud of last night’s fight.
My hands grip the wheel—knuckles bruised, split skin stinging under the pressure—and my Beretta sits heavy in my lap, a constant weight, a promise of what’s coming.
We’re running—not away, but toward—toward Leone Salucci.
I push the car harder, weaving through backroads, dodging the patrols of bounty hunters and Salucci’s men, the war’s chaos spreading like wildfire. We’re not just fighting for survival anymore—it’s for control, for vengeance, for the truth we’ve been blind to until now.
“Derelict garage near Viterbo,” I mutter, breaking the silence.
I turn off the road, gravel crunching under the tires, the outline of the garage looming ahead—a sagging shell of corrugated metal and broken brick, windows boarded, surrounded by tangled scrub and rusted hulks of old cars.
“Cassian’s meeting us—bringing whoever he can scrape up. Marcella?”
“Texted her,” Isolde says, pulling her phone, rain tapping the windshield as she scans the screen. “She’s in—slipped out of the estate, says she’s got two men still loyal, ones Leo hasn’t turned. Meeting us here—half hour, maybe less.”
“Good,” I say, pulling the car behind a rusted truck, killing the engine, the silence sudden and heavy, rain drumming soft on the roof.
I step out—boots sinking into the mud, cold air biting my face—and Isolde follows, her gun in hand, coat flapping as the wind picks up, tugging at the loose strands of her braid.
We move fast—low, cautious—slipping into the garage through a side door, the hinges groaning, the interior dark and cavernous, smelling of oil, rust, and damp rot.
Crates and old tires stack the walls, shadows pooling deep in the corners, and I sweep my gun across the space—empty, for now, a temporary haven in this shitstorm.
“Leone’s moving fast,” I say, voice low, leaning against a crate, my gaze flicking to her as she paces, restless, her boots scuffing the concrete.
I walk to her, stopping her in her tracks.
My hand slides to her neck, thumb tracing the faint bruise I left days ago—a mark of mine, a claim in this chaos—feeling her pulse steady under my touch.
“He’s not just watching—he’s taking. Our families are broken—Emilio’s got half his men left, your father’s losing control, and Leone’s got numbers, resources, shit we didn’t see coming.
We’ve got to hit him—hard, fast—before he locks it down. ”
“With what?” she asks, voice low, urgent, stepping into my space, her breath fogging between us, rain dripping from her coat to the floor. “Cassian’s crew—Marcella’s men—it’s scraps, Azrael. We’re hunted—bounties on us, no families, no armies. How do we take him?”
“Remnants,” I say, voice hard, pulling her closer, forehead pressing to hers, rain-damp skin warm against mine.
“Cassian’s loyal—got men scattered but alive, ones Emilio hasn’t turned.
Marcella’s got pull—your father’s men who haven’t bought Leo’s bullshit.
We gather them—small, tight, ruthless—hit Leone where he’s weak, end this before he buries us both. ”
She pulls back—nods slowly, fierce—her hand gripping my wrist, fingers digging in, a spark of resolve cutting through the exhaustion. “Then we do it—rally them, strike him down. But where? How do we find him?”
“Cassian’s intel,” I mutter, stepping to the crate, pulling a crumpled map from my pocket—creased, rain-streaked—spreading it out, my finger tracing the lines as rain taps the roof, a steady rhythm against the distant hum of chaos.
“Cassian tracked chatter—Leone’s holed up near Tivoli, old villa, fortified, running his game from there.
We hit it—gather who we can, go in hard, end him. ”
The door bangs open—wind gusting in—and I spin, gun raised, heart slamming—until I see Cassian, stepping through, his leather coat glistening, hazel eyes sharp, blood crusted on his cheek from some fight he didn’t tell me about.
Two men follow—rugged, armed, Varelas I recognize, loyal to me, not Emilio—and he shuts the door, leaning against it, breath heaving.
“Found you,” he says, voice rough, nodding at Isolde, then me.
“War’s a fucking graveyard—Emilio’s down to scraps, D’Angelos too.
Leone’s moving—took a port near Naples this morning, fifteen of ours dead, more of theirs. He’s seizing it all—fast.”
“Leone,” I growl, lowering the gun, stepping closer. “We’re hitting him—Tivoli, his villa. You’ve got men—how many?”
“Six,” he says, jerking his thumb at the two behind him—Marco, broad and scarred, and Luka, lean, eyes hard—then out the door. “Four more outside—loyal, ones Emilio hasn’t turned. Small crew—tight, mean—but it’s what we’ve got. Her?” He nods at Isolde, doubt flickering again, but muted, worn-down.
“Marcella’s coming,” she says, stepping up, voice steady, fierce, her gun resting easy in her hand. “Two men—loyal to me, not Leo. Half hour—then we’ve got eight, maybe ten total. Scraps, but enough—hit him fast, cut him down.”
Cassian’s eyes flick between us—jaw tight, then a slow nod, resignation cutting through the tension. “Ten against his army—fuck, it’s suicide, but it’s your call, Azrael. Hope she’s worth it—war’s breaking everything, and you’re betting it all on this.”
“She is,” I say, voice hard, stepping into his space, my hand on Isolde’s shoulder, fierce, protective. “We’ve been pawns—Leone’s game, not ours. Families are weak—he’s rising—but we’re ending it. Gather your men—we hit Tivoli, take him out, finish this together.”
He nods—grudging, steady—turning to the door, barking at Marco and Luka to signal the others, the garage creaking as the wind picks up, rain intensifying outside.
Isolde’s hand finds mine—quick, fierce—her green eyes locking with mine, a storm of resolve mirroring my own.
“Together,” she murmurs, voice low, a vow forged in betrayal and bloodshed, and I squeeze back, the map crumpled in my fist, the weight of our choice slamming home.
This is it, our fight, our last stand, and I’m burning the fucking world for her, for us, no matter what it costs.