Chapter 40 Silvo
SILVO
“This better be important,” I growl, careful not to wake Carmela beside me.
“Boss, our guy inside the Tartarov operation just made contact. Alexei himself is coming to the docks tomorrow night to oversee a major weapons shipment. Military-grade stuff—assault rifles, grenade launchers, even some experimental tech.”
I sit upright, instantly alert. “You’re certain it’s Alexei, not one of his lieutenants?”
“Confirmed by two separate sources. One of Nico’s guys validated it too—they got the same intel.”
“Call Nico. Tell him I need a meeting in two hours. Neutral ground.”
By sunrise, Nico Moretti and I sit across from each other at an abandoned warehouse office. Despite the early hour, he looks as immaculate as ever in his tailored suit. Our decades-old rivalry is temporarily suspended by a common enemy.
“My people confirmed it,” Nico says, sliding surveillance photos across the table. “Alexei’s flying in from Brighton Beach specifically for this shipment. He doesn’t trust his captains with this one.”
“He’s never exposed himself like this before,” I note, examining the photos. “Makes me wonder what’s on that boat that’s worth the risk.”
Nico leans forward. “Whatever it is, it’s our opportunity. Take out Alexei, and his organization crumbles. The power vacuum will tear them apart from within.”
“We’ll need both our crews,” I say, pulling out a map of the docks. “My men here and here—yours covering these approaches. We’ll need snipers on these three buildings.”
Nico nods, adding his own annotations. “We should coordinate through a single command channel. Less chance of friendly fire.”
For an hour, we plot positions, escape routes, contingencies. Two families that spent generations trying to destroy each other, now working in lethal harmony.
“Federico will coordinate with Maximo on the tactical frequency,” I say, marking the final positions.
Under the cover of darkness, I lead my men toward the docks. The briny scent of the harbor mingles with the metallic smell of weaponry as we move in practiced formation. Nico and his crew approach from the opposite direction, their shadows gliding between shipping containers like ghosts.
Through my earpiece, Fed confirms all teams are in position. “Snipers have eyes on the perimeter. No sign of Alexei yet, but the shipment’s arrived.”
“Copy that,” I mutter, signaling my men to advance. “Maintain radio discipline from here on.”
We’ve been planning this for days—the perfect ambush. Take out Alexei Tartarov and cripple his organization in one surgical strike.
The massive cargo ship looms ahead, a skeleton crew visible on deck. Too few men for a shipment this valuable. Something feels off.
“Visual on target,” comes Maximo’s voice through the comm. “East entrance, moving with four bodyguards.”
“All teams hold positions,” I command. “Wait for my signal.”
I peer through my scope at the figure entering the warehouse. The build matches Alexei, but his movement seems wrong. Too casual for a man overseeing a critical shipment.
Suddenly, my instincts scream danger.
“It’s a setup! Fall back!” I shout into my comm, but it’s too late.
Blinding spotlights flash on from all directions, pinning us in their glare. Heavy gunfire erupts from positions we’d already cleared. They’ve been waiting for us.
“Ambush!” I yell, diving behind a concrete barrier as bullets pepper the ground where I stood.
Screams and curses fill the comms as men from both families take hits. Marco goes down three feet from me, clutching his shoulder. Lorenzo, my most experienced captain, collapses with a spray of blood from his chest.
Through the chaos, I spot Nico pinned down behind a forklift, two of his bodyguards already motionless beside him.
“They knew we were coming,” Fed shouts, returning fire as he drags a wounded soldier to cover. “They’ve got mounted guns on the containers!”
The air fills with the deafening rattle of automatic weapons as Tartarov’s men pour devastating fire into our position. We’re caught in the open, outgunned and surrounded.
I spot a shooter with a laser sight tracking toward Nico’s position. Without thinking, I sprint through the hail of bullets.
“Nico, down!” I bellow, launching myself across the open space.
The bullet meant for Nico’s head tears through my shoulder instead. White-hot pain explodes through my body as I crash into him, both of us tumbling behind a stack of crates. Blood soaks my shirt, but adrenaline keeps the worst of the pain at bay.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nico gasps, eyes wide with shock.
“Saving your ungrateful ass,” I grunt, pressing my hand against the wound. “Our families die if both of us don’t make it out of here.”
A grenade lands five feet away. I grab Nico’s collar and heave us both behind a concrete pillar as the explosion rocks the warehouse, showering us with debris.
“Fed!” I shout into my comm. “Emergency extraction, now!”
“On it!” Fed’s voice crackles through static.
Nico pulls out his sidearm and returns fire, covering us as we crawl toward the east exit. “My men are cut to pieces out there.”
“So are mine,” I say through gritted teeth. “But we’re no good to them dead.”
A black SUV crashes through the warehouse doors, Federico behind the wheel. Maximo provides covering fire from the passenger seat.
“Move!” I push Nico toward the vehicle, firing blindly behind us.
We dive into the backseat as bullets shatter the rear window. Fed floors it, tires screeching as we burst through a chain-link fence.
“Tartarov?” I demand, pressing a rag against my bleeding shoulder.
“Gone,” Maximo spits. “Disappeared during the first volley.”
Nico’s eyes meet mine across the blood-smeared leather seat. “You took that bullet for me.”
“Yeah, well, don’t read too much into it,” I mutter.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Three generations of hatred, and you risked your life for mine.”
“Our war ends with Tartarov,” I say firmly. “Not with either of us in a body bag.”
Nico extends his hand. I clasp it, feeling something shift between us—not friendship, not yet, but something more profound than mere alliance.
The SUV speeds through the night, tires screeching against wet pavement. Blood—mine and others’—stains the leather seats. No one speaks. The weight of our failure hangs heavy in the cramped space.
“Nine dead,” Fed finally says, breaking the silence. “Four ours, five Morettis. Plus a dozen wounded.”
I press my hand against my throbbing shoulder. Maximo had examined it during our escape, pouring vodka over the wound and wrapping it with a torn shirt. Just a graze, but deep enough to leave a new scar.
“He knew we were coming,” I mutter, watching the city lights blur past my window. “Someone’s feeding Tartarov information.”
“Another leak,” I mutter, watching the city lights blur past my window. “Someone’s feeding Tartarov information. Again.”
Nico’s face hardens in the dim light. “We rooted out our last one two months ago. I thought we were clean.”
“So did I.” The unspoken question hangs between us—how deep does this go? How many times can we purge our ranks before we run out of men we trust? This fragile alliance has nearly cost us everything tonight, and the enemy is apparently still inside both our walls.
“Third time someone’s sold us out,” I say grimly. “Tartarov has deep pockets and a long reach.”
We pull up outside the estate, armed guards immediately surrounding the vehicle. Maximo climbs out first, scanning the perimeter before nodding to his father.
Nico pauses before exiting, his eyes meeting mine. “Why’d you do it, De Luca? Take that bullet?”
“Because Tartarov wins if either of us dies,” I answer flatly.
“You sure that’s the only reason?”
I don’t answer. I’m not sure myself.
Nico nods almost imperceptibly, then disappears into the night surrounded by his men.
Twenty minutes later, we pull into my driveway. The house lights are on—Carmela’s waiting. My body aches with each movement as I drag myself from the car.
“Get some rest,” I tell Fed. “Tomorrow will be worse.”
I find Carmela in our bedroom, pacing. When she sees me, the blood staining my shirt, she freezes.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I say.
She crosses the room in an instant, her fingers carefully peeling back the makeshift bandage. “You promised me you’d be careful.”
“I was. That’s why it’s just a graze.”
Her eyes search mine, finding the truth I can’t hide. How close I came to not returning at all.
“We were ambushed,” I admit. “Tartarov knew we were coming.”
Carmela pulls me close, careful of my injury. Against her warmth, the shaking I’ve been suppressing finally breaks free.
Carmela’s hands tremble as she inspects my wound. Her fingers, usually so steady, brush against my skin with a gentleness that almost breaks me. The fear in her eyes cuts deeper than any bullet could.
“I thought—” Her voice catches. “When Federico called, he just said there was an ambush. He didn’t know if—” She can’t finish the sentence.
I cup her face with my good hand, wiping away a tear with my thumb. “Hey, I’m right here.”
“This time.” Her voice hardens, but her eyes remain vulnerable. “What about next time? Or the time after that?” She presses her forehead against my chest, careful to avoid my injured shoulder. “I can’t lose you, Silvo. I can’t.”
The words hang between us. Three months ago, they would have surprised me—an arranged wife caring whether I lived or died. Now, they’re the most natural thing in the world.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
When she raises her gaze to mine, I see everything I never knew I wanted—fear and love and fierce determination all mixed together. This woman, forced into my life against her will, has somehow become my reason to return home alive.
“You won’t lose me,” I promise, knowing it’s a vow I might not be able to keep.
I lean down and capture her lips with mine. The kiss starts gentle, almost hesitant, but quickly deepens into something desperate and hungry. She responds immediately, her body molding against mine as if trying to prove to herself I’m really here, whole and alive.
For one perfect moment, there are no rival families, no ambushes, no Tartarovs waiting to destroy everything we’ve built. Just Carmela and me, finding shelter in each other while the world burns around us.