Chapter 15
Blood in the Streets
The restaurant was one of Enzo’s finest establishments; dimly lit, exclusive, and exuding an air of quiet power. The scent of seared meat and aged wine lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of expensive cigars. Seated at a private booth near the back, Enzo swirled a glass of deep red wine in his hand, his sharp green eyes assessing the men gathered around him.
At the table sat three of his closest associates: Ricardo, a seasoned enforcer with graying temples and a permanent scowl; Marco, a lean man with quick hands and an even quicker temper; and Salvatore, the quietest of them all, but the deadliest with a blade. They spoke in low voices, discussing business, recent tensions in the city, and a potential deal that needed delicate handling.
“The shipment came in last night,” Marco murmured, stabbing his fork into his steak. “No problems on our end.”
Enzo nodded, setting his wine down. “Good. And the Colombians?”
Ricardo exhaled through his nose. “They’re pushing boundaries. Our docks aren’t secure enough for their liking. They want guarantees.”
Enzo’s jaw tightened. “They’ll get the same guarantees we’ve always given; our word and our presence. If they need more, they’re looking in the wrong fucking place.”
Salvatore, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “We should be careful. Someone’s been stirring the pot lately.” His dark eyes met Enzo’s. “Feels like someone wants a war.”
A chill of foreboding settled over the table. Enzo drummed his fingers against the polished wood, considering. “Let them try,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “If they want a war, they’ll get one. But on our terms.”
They finished their meal without further discussion, though the tension remained thick. Enzo settled the bill with a nod to the waiter and rose from his seat, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp black suit.
The moment he stepped outside, the city air hit him; a mixture of gasoline, fresh bread from the bakery down the street, and the ever-present weight of something unseen. He inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders. The street wasn’t too crowded, but the presence of his guards nearby ensured no one got too close.
Then, without warning, the first shot rang out.
Glass shattered. A woman screamed. Tires screeched as cars attempted to speed away from the chaos. The metallic scent of gunpowder filled the air, thick and suffocating.
Enzo barely had time to react before another bullet whizzed past his ear, embedding itself in the brick wall beside him. His instincts kicked in and he ducked, reaching for the gun holstered beneath his jacket as his guards sprang into action.
“Down!” someone shouted.
The air exploded with the deafening thunder of gunfire. Bullets ricocheted off metal poles and shattered car windows, sending shards of glass flying through the air like deadly rain. A black SUV parked nearby took several hits, the tires bursting with a sharp pop, its alarm blaring in protest. The acrid scent of burning rubber mixed with the chaos, making the scene feel even more suffocating.
One of Enzo’s guards collapsed with a grunt, blood blooming across his chest as he crumpled onto the sidewalk. Enzo barely had time to register it before another round of bullets forced him to move. He crouched low behind a parked car, his heart hammering but his hands steady as he assessed the situation.
Across the street, he caught sight of the shooters; masked men, at least four of them, moving in coordinated formation. Professionals. Not some low-level thugs trying to make a name for themselves.
“Marco!” Enzo barked as he fired a shot, taking cover behind the car.
“Got you!” Marco returned fire, his expression a mask of cold determination. Ricardo was already on the move, pulling one of the downed guards out of the line of fire while Salvatore disappeared into the shadows, likely maneuvering for a kill.
Gunfire continued in bursts, a relentless storm of bullets tearing through the street. The air reeked of gunpowder and burning rubber, acrid and thick in Enzo’s throat as he ducked behind a parked car. His pulse was a steady, controlled rhythm; too much panic meant mistakes, and mistakes got men killed.
Another shot slammed into the car’s hood, sending a shower of sparks flying. Enzo grit his teeth, rolling to the side and firing back in quick, precise bursts. He had no time to think, only react. Every second counted. Every movement had to be calculated.
Who the hell were they? This wasn’t some half-assed warning. These men were trained, coordinated. Professionals. Someone had planned this. Someone wanted him dead.
A sharp whistle of a bullet barely missed his head, embedding into the concrete inches away. Too close. He exhaled sharply, forcing his mind to focus. Panic was useless. He’d survived worse.
Another rapid burst of gunfire rang out, and before he could shift cover, a searing pain exploded in his shoulder. The impact jerked him back against the car, his breath hitching as agony tore through him.
For a moment, everything else dulled, the gunfire, the shouting, the chaos, and all that remained was the sharp, white-hot sensation radiating from the wound. He grit his teeth, refusing to falter. Weakness was not an option.
Blood seeped through his suit, warm and sticky, but Enzo pushed forward, dragging himself into better cover. He forced his hand to stay steady as he raised his gun again, his green eyes sharp and filled with fury.
Minutes stretched into eternity as Enzo kept firing, his vision blurring at the edges from blood loss. His movements became heavier, but he refused to slow down. He had to hold out.
Then, the roar of approaching engines cut through the gunfire. Five sleek black cars screeched onto the street, their tires burning against the pavement. A surge of relief mixed with determination flooded Enzo’s veins as his brothers arrived, leading a small army of heavily armed men.
Luca was the first to jump out, gun raised, his expression dark with rage. Matteo followed, already firing before his feet even touched the ground. The reinforcements wasted no time; bullets tore through the air with precision, overwhelming the ambushers. The tables turned in seconds.
The assailants, realizing they were outnumbered, began to retreat. Some ducked into alleyways, others sprinted toward waiting vehicles. A few were cut down before they could escape, but the rest vanished into the city, leaving behind only the wreckage of their failed assassination attempt.
As the last shots faded, Enzo slumped against the car, gripping his bleeding shoulder. The street was littered with shattered glass, spent shells, and bodies, both his men and theirs. His chest heaved, exhaustion threatening to drag him under, but he pushed through it as his brothers rushed toward him.
“Enzo!” Luca’s voice was sharp with worry, his usually calm demeanor shattered as he knelt beside him. His hands hovered near the wound as if unsure whether to touch or not.
Matteo, face pale, scanned Enzo for more injuries before muttering, “Christ, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Enzo let out a strained breath, trying for a smirk but only managing a grimace. “Yeah, no shit.”
Luca’s jaw clenched as he ripped off his own jacket, pressing it hard against Enzo’s shoulder to slow the bleeding. “We need to get you to Julian. Now.”
Enzo nodded weakly, but his eyes were still scanning the area. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.