Chapter 9 #2
He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
Not enough for most people to notice.
But I did.
“Excuse me,” he muttered, already turning slightly away from the table.
Renzo lifted the phone to his ear.
“Yeah.”
The word was flat.
A pause followed—brief, but heavy.
I didn’t need to hear the voice on the other end to know who it was.
Vincenzo.
Even through the distance, even through the low hum of the room, I could almost feel his anger crackling through the line like live wire.
Renzo didn’t react.
Not outwardly.
His posture stayed relaxed, his shoulders loose, his expression unreadable as he listened.
“She came with me,” he said evenly. “Yes, sir.”
A beat.
“Yes... she insisted.”
Another pause.
His eyes flickered briefly toward me—quick, sharp, assessing—but he didn’t linger.
“No, the meeting’s civil so far.”
Another pause.
His jaw tightened again.
Then—
“Understood.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Hung up.
Just like that.
Renzo lowered the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, returning to the conversation as if nothing had happened.
The Sicilians didn’t comment.
The conversation continued, steady and deliberate, as if the interruption had never occurred.
Numbers were finalized.
Terms adjusted.
Compromises made where necessary, concessions calculated down to the last percentage point.
It didn’t take long after that.
Ten minutes.
Maybe less.
Everything was settled in the same quiet, dangerous language the entire meeting had been conducted in.
No raised voices.
No threats spoken aloud.
Just mutual understanding—backed by the unspoken agreement that if anything went wrong, everyone in this room would die trying to fix it.
Handshakes followed.
Firm. Brief.
Donatello stood first, smoothing his jacket with deliberate precision.
“Extend our regards to Vincenzo Orsini,” he said, his voice calm but carrying weight. “Tell him the Sicilians remember old alliances.”
Renzo inclined his head once.
“Will do.”
Bianca followed, her expression unreadable, her red lips pressing into a thin, controlled line as she stepped back into her role—silent, observant, lethal in her own right.
Then their men moved.
Twelve shadows filing out in a tight formation, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor before disappearing into the corridor.
Gone.
Just like that.
I let out a slow breath as the doors closed behind them.
The tension in the room shifted.
“Still alive,” I murmured, pushing myself up from the chair. “Well. That went... smooth.”
Renzo didn’t look at me.
He checked his watch instead.
“The Sicilians and we share the same roots,” he said evenly.
“We’re not like the Spanish—constantly at war. We know how to conduct business, even in hostility, without turning it into bloodshed.”
A pause.
“Doesn’t mean we trust each other.”
His gaze lifted, sharp and cold.
“That’s why we bring armies to every handshake.”
That—was the truth of this world.
I didn’t argue.
Just turned and followed him as he headed for the exit.
The Third Battalion fell into formation again without a word, moving like a single organism as we retraced our steps through the corridor.
Back through the sculptures.
Back past the silent guards.
Back toward the glass doors that separated us from the night.
Only when we stepped outside—when the cool air hit my face and the tension in my chest loosened by a fraction—did I speak.
“Vincenzo called.”
Renzo didn’t slow. “What did he say?”
He walked straight to his bike, boots crunching against the gravel with deliberate steps.
I frowned.
“Renzo.”
He stopped.
And for a moment—just a moment—something felt... off.
Renzo’s entire body went rigid.
Then—
I followed his gaze.
And my stomach dropped.
Every single one of the seven cars the third battalion had brought sat useless, tires flat.
The supercars sat in place like lifeless husks, their weight resting unevenly on punctured rubber, the sidewalls sagging as though something had drained the life from them.
Twenty-eight tires.
All slashed.
At once.
A cold chill crawled up my spine.
Renzo moved fast, Glock already steady in his right hand, his arm locked, barrel tracking the treeline with precise, deliberate movements.
His hand shot out, clamping around my upper arm, and in one fluid motion he yanked me backward—dragging me behind the nearest supercar.
The black Lamborghini’s frame blocked us from immediate view as we dropped into cover.
The Third Battalion reacted instantly.
Rifles came up.
Bodies dropped low.
They spread out in practiced formations, using the vehicles and scattered concrete barriers as cover, their movements precise, synchronized, lethal.
This wasn’t their first ambush.
And it wouldn’t be their last.
“What the fuck is going on?” I hissed, already pulling my Glock from its holster.
The weight of it settled into my grip.
I flicked the safety off with my thumb.
Renzo’s voice came low beside me.
“This is a red signal. We might be under attack.”
My breath hitched, then slowed as I forced myself to stay calm.
Every instinct screamed danger, but I couldn’t let panic take the wheel.
Renzo’s eyes scanned the lot, sharp and calculating.
I followed his gaze toward the treeline beyond the lot.
One soldier broke from formation, sprinting straight toward the cover where Renzo and I crouched—Rossi, his name patch announcing him clearly.
His breathing was controlled, his stance still alert despite the urgency.
“Backup’s en route, boss,” he reported, voice tight but steady.
“ETA three minutes. Armored Suburban and two technicals. They’re rolling hot.”
Renzo gave a curt nod, eyes never leaving the treeline.
“Good,” he said, low and controlled. “Hold positions. No one relaxes until we have eyes on the threat.”
Rossi nodded once and fell back into position without another word.
I slipped out from behind the Lamborghini and approached Renzo’s Ducati.
The tire was completely flattened.
My eyes scanned the cut again.
Too precise.
This wasn’t chaos. This was a message.
“Elena—step the fuck away from that bike.”
Renzo’s voice cracked across the lot like a whip.
Commanding.
“This is still a hot zone. We stay in cover until backup arrives. You hear me?”
I didn’t respond.
Didn’t even look at him.
Instead, I shifted my attention to the cars the third battalion had arrived in.
I wasn’t going to stay in cover like a coward without figuring out what this was—an ambush, a trap, or a message.
The doors were unlocked. That alone was wrong.
I moved toward one of the cars—a custom Aston Martin—and eased the door open carefully.
Eyes sweeping the interior in a practiced scan—leather seats, carbon-fiber trim, no visible threats.
Nothing obvious.
I moved to the next car.
Ferrari SF90.
Same story.
Clean.
The third car—the McLaren—sat slightly angled, its rear door cracked open just enough to notice something off.
My instincts tightened.
I stepped closer. Opened the door fully.
And there—on the backseat—my entire world narrowed.
A compact black cylinder sat nestled against the Alcantara upholstery like it belonged there.
Matte finish.
No seams. No markings.
Just a single red LED blinking once every second.
And beneath it—a thin wire connected to a small detonator cap taped to the side.
My pulse spiked.
Recognition hit instantly.
This wasn’t just a bomb—it was a military-grade shaped charge.
Designed to direct the blast outward—Precise destruction rather than chaotic dispersion.
C4 or Semtex.
Enough to shred the interior. Enough to turn the car into a fireball.
Enough to kill everyone within a twenty-foot radius.
My eyes locked onto the LED.
00:05.
My blood turned to ice.
“It’s a bomb!” The words tore out of me.
I didn’t hesitate.
I grabbed it—lighter than expected—and spun on my heel, breaking into a run.
Without slowing, I threw it.
The cylinder flew from my hand, arcing across the asphalt, skidding hard before rolling to a stop fifteen meters away.
“Three seconds!” I shouted.
The lot erupted in movement.
But there was no time to react.
The device red LED blinked—
00:01.
One of the soldiers—Marco, young, barely twenty-five—broke cover.
“Marco—NO!” someone shouted.
But he didn’t stop.
He sprinted straight toward it.
And then—he dropped, throwing his body over the cylinder, shielding it, sacrificing himself to absorb the blast that would have torn through all of us.
“Flee!” I screamed, already turning.
“Everyone fucking flee—NOW!”
Renzo’s hand clamped around my bicep with brutal force.
Hard enough to bruise.
He yanked me backward, dragging me toward the far side of the lot as my boots scraped against the gravel.
I stumbled.
Fighting to keep my balance.
The world compressed.
Too late.
The blast came.
A concussive crack—followed by a violent pressure wave that slammed into us like a physical wall.
Heat surged over me in an instant.
My feet left the ground, air ripped from my lungs as the force hurled me sideways.
Everything around me splintered into light, a blinding white that consumed my vision as death passed too close.
Then it vanished.
Darkness closed in, swallowing everything whole.