Chapter 39 Gio
GIO
Iglide the all-black Mercedes to a stop, cutting the engine and allowing the silence of the night to resume. I step out, grabbing the duffle bag from the passenger seat.
I'm dressed head to toe in black—tactical pants, combat boots, a fitted long-sleeve shirt that won't restrict my movement when I need to move fast. I've left my watch and rings behind, except for one—a simple gold band with the Bonventi crest on it.
If I'm going to kill tonight, I'll do it with my family's blessing.
The air at the dock is thick with the stale bite of diesel and the damp musk of rotting wood, laced with a faint, metallic tang of cold lake water.
No crashing waves, just the eerie stillness of Lake Michigan, its dark surface swallowing the city's glow, ready to drown whatever sins we are about to commit.
My men approach from the shadows, nodding respectfully. They're dressed similarly, faces hard and focused. This isn't their first rodeo, but tonight is different. Tonight isn't just business—it's personal.
In the opposite direction, Ares emerges from between two containers, his men flanking him. He's taller than everyone, with shoulders like a linebacker.
"My friend," he calls, his voice carrying across the short distance between us.
"Right on time," I comment, setting my duffle down and unzipping it. Inside, my weapons are arranged neatly—guns, knives, a club I probably won't use but bring anyway. Old habits.
Ares smiles. "No fun in being late. I can't risk letting you have all the fun." He gestures to one of his men, who comes forward with a tablet. "I've got some more intel, as promised."
I check the magazine on my Glock, sliding it back into place with a satisfying click. "Let's hear it."
"Turns out there's been a little confusion about who was after Raven," Ares says, glancing at the tablet.
"Viktor Sokolov is the right person, but he's not the son of the Russian family.
He's a cousin from a separate family in Moscow who was brought over to help operate just outside the Don's realm so nothing could be directly tied back to the Russian family here in Chicago. "
I pause, looking up at him. "Okay, what kind of help?"
"His first order of business was to kill your brother, Marco." Ares's eyes meet mine, stoic and focused. "He's also an art collector, which brought him to Raven's father."
The pieces snap into place in my mind, creating a clear picture that makes my blood boil. "Frank screwed him over on the painting," I say firmly. "So he had them do what his main objective was all along—kill my brother."
My hand tightens around the gun I'm holding, imagining it's Viktor's throat. The thought of Marco lying in that hospital bed, tubes keeping him alive. The memory of Raven's tears as she watched her gallery burn. All of it—every bit of pain, every drop of blood—because of this piece of shit.
"There's more," Ares continues, seemingly unfazed by the rage building in me. "He plans on taking Raven back with him to Russia, so who knows what would happen to her if he succeeds."
My jaw clenches. The thought of Raven—my Raven, my future wife, future mother of my child—in that monster's hands makes me see red.
"So he's a real asshole, huh?" Ares says, laughing, putting the tablet away. "Uses his personal bodyguard, this Mikhail Petrov guy, who also came with him from Russia, to do his bidding."
"Makes sense. Frank told me before he died about these two pricks," I say, pacing, trying to calm my anger.
"Whoa, her father's dead?" Ares asks.
I nod.
"Did you—" He asks and then stops when I give him a look.
"Jesus, Gio. This is all like a fucking telenovela," Ares mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
"What?"
"A soap opera," he grins and places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm not going to ask anymore about you two. I just better be invited to the wedding."
"You help me kill these two motherfuckers, and I'll put you in the damn thing."
Ares smiles. "Well, tonight Viktor will be here, along with Mikhail. This will be the biggest message we can send." He looks me straight in the eyes. "Are you ready?"
I cock my gun, the sound sharp in the night air. "Fuck yes."
I strap on my shoulder holster, checking that my backup piece is secure. I slide a knife into the sheath at my ankle, another at my waist. I give my earpiece a check. Ares nods that he can hear me.
"So, Raven know you're here?" Ares asks casually, checking his own weapon.
The thought of her makes something in my chest tighten. Not guilt—I never feel guilty about what I do to protect what's mine. But something else.
"She's at the house," I say, unwilling to elaborate. To tell him how I kissed her goodbye as she slept, how I slipped the engagement ring back onto her finger after she'd taken it off to shower. How I whispered promises against her skin that I'd come back to her.
Ares nods, understanding the unspoken. "My men will take the perimeter," he says, switching to business. "Yours can handle the east entrance. We'll take the front approach."
I check my watch. Fifteen minutes until Viktor's meet is supposed to start.
"You take out Mikhail," I tell Ares. "Viktor is mine."
There's no argument from him. He knows what this means to me. What family means to me. What Raven means to me.
My men spread out at my signal, moving silently between containers, taking up their positions. Ares's crew does the same. I stay low, moving with stealth toward the warehouse where the meet is set to take place.
I'm going to make sure Raven never regrets accepting me and the world I live in. Starting tonight, by removing every threat to her safety.
Through my earpiece, I hear confirmations from my men as they get into position. The night is quiet except for the distant sound of a ship's horn.
I press my back against a container, peering around the corner. The warehouse is lit up, shadows moving behind frosted windows. Three black SUVs are parked outside, along with a sleek silver Bentley that must belong to Viktor.
They're early.
"Target vehicles confirmed," I say into my comm. "Four total. I count six men outside."
"Four inside," comes the response from Ares. "Maybe more, so eyes everywhere."
Suddenly, a man gets out of the Bentley. He's dressed in a fancy suit. That's Viktor. I recognize him from the images from the tablet Ares had.
As I watch him walk into the warehouse, my mind shifts to Marco and that horrible night. How close I came to losing him.
My anger goes cold, transforming into something more dangerous—a focused, razor-sharp intent that will not be denied. This isn't about business. This isn't about territory or respect or any of the usual bullshit.
This is about family. About love. About making sure anyone who thinks of touching my family or what's mine learns exactly what that mistake costs.
"On my command," I say, with a hand on my gun.
"Wait. Wait," Ares's voice comes through.
"What?" I ask.
"They're coming out the front, to the pier to inspect an approaching boat. They'll be in the open."
"Are both targets visible?" I ask, waiting.
A few seconds go by.
What the fuck is he doing?
"Yes," Ares finally responds. "Time to send these fuckers to Hades."
The boat docks smoothly. Two men jump out first, scanning the area. One of them is Mikhail Petrov—I recognize him from the photos Ares provided. Tall, blond, with a distinctive scar running from his right eye to his lip.
The others follow, moving toward a cargo container at the end of the pier. They're armed with automatic weapons.
They reach the boat and start talking, pointing to the container.
"Now," I say.
The night erupts in chaos. Silenced gunshots pop from multiple directions. Two men drop immediately, caught in the crossfire. A third raises his weapon but crumples as one of Ares's men takes him down with a clean shot to the head.
Mikhail dives for cover behind the container, returning fire. I signal to one of my guys, and we move forward in a flanking maneuver while Ares's men provide suppressing fire.
A bullet whizzes past my ear. Too close.
I duck, steadying myself against a steel crate, then peek around the edge.
Viktor and another man are trying to make a break back inside the warehouse.
I aim at the other man and fire twice. Both shots find their mark—one in his back, another in his neck as he falls.
His body hits the wooden dock with a dull thud.
Only Mikhail and one other man remain on the dock, Viktor disappearing inside. I signal to Ares across the pier, pointing to the far side of the container. He nods, understanding my plan.
"Two behind the container," I order into the comm. "Watch for crossfire. I'm going after Viktor."
We close in from all sides. The henchman hiding with Mikhail tries to make a stand, firing wildly. A bullet catches one of Ares's men in the shoulder. Before he can fire again, three of us put him down, his body jerking as the bullets tear through him.
Just Mikhail is left, but I'll leave Ares to deal with him.
I sprint toward the warehouse, rage burning hotter than the gunfire behind me. This is what I was born for. This is what I am—the weapon of my family, the protector of what I love.
My boots pound against the dock as Ares's voice crackles in my earpiece: "Mikhail's down. Where's Viktor?"
"Inside," I growl, not slowing my pace. "Don't let anyone in or out of the warehouse."
As I approach, I see the metal door is ajar, Viktor's hasty entry leaving it open. I advance with caution, gun raised, senses heightened.
I slip inside, my eyes adjusting to the dimmer light. The warehouse smells of fish, the typical stench of dockside storage. Shipping containers are stacked in neat rows, creating a maze of potential hiding places. Perfect for an ambush.
Shit.
A sound to my left—the shuffle of shoes on concrete.