Chapter 28 Atlas
Atlas
Gunshots tore through the club; rapid, relentless.
The entire room detonated into panic.
Men scattered, trampling each other, clawing for exits like rats in a burning maze.
Bodies struck mine, hands grabbing at air, at walls, at anything that looked like salvation.
Security tried to push the tide back, shouting orders no one listened to.
More gunfire erupted, louder this time, from the balcony.
I didn’t slow down. She was here. Somewhere behind that stage. And I could feel her like a pulse under my skin.
Gianni stuck to my right flank, pistol drawn, eyes scanning. “We need to fall back!” he shouted over the chaos. “They’re firing from both levels!”
“I’m not leaving without her.”
Another hail of bullets rained from above, shredding glass, splintering wood. A spotlight exploded overhead, showering us in sparks. We ducked behind a toppled table as gunfire scorched the air inches from our skulls.
Gianni reloaded with shaking hands. “We’re boxed in, Atlas! They have the high ground!”
“Move,” I growled.
I didn’t wait for him.
I vaulted the table, boots slamming into slick, blood-smeared flooring. A bullet screamed past my ear. Another punched a crater into the wall behind me. The crowd roared. But I didn’t hear any of it.
Gianni cursed and followed, firing upward to cover my rush. I plowed through the panic, shoulder-first, driving toward the backstage hall like a bullet with a singular target.
A guard stepped out of the shadows.
Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong fucking man to stand in front of.
I shoved my shoulder into his sternum. The air left his lungs with a violent grunt. Before he could recover, I wrenched his gun from his grip, pivoted, and fired a bullet straight through his forehead.
He dropped like a stone.
We hit the backstage corridor just as three more guards turned the corner, rifles already raised.
They opened fire.
The muzzle flashes lit the hallway in bursts of white. Bullets ripped through the plaster. One grazed my shoulder, but the sting barely registered through the adrenaline.
I ducked, grabbed Gianni by the back of his shirt, and hurled us both into a side alcove behind a thick steel column.
Gianni gasped, wide-eyed. “Jesus Christ—”
“We need to push forward,” I snarled, checking the remaining rounds in my stolen gun. “Neve is back there.”
He nodded once, fear carved into his features, but he didn’t argue.
Because at this point, I was sure he could see that nothing short of a bullet through my skull would stop me. And even then, I’d probably claw my way back from the grave to get to her.
“WATCH YOUR LEFT!” Gianni shouted suddenly.
I pivoted without thinking and let out one shot. Two. Three.
The first man dropped instantly. The second hit the ground screaming, clutching his chest. The third took one look at the ruin of his friends and bolted down the corridor.
I didn’t bother chasing him. I pushed forward.
The club shook violently as an explosion detonated somewhere in the main hall. A burst of flame rolled across the rafters, lighting the ceiling in a hungry, crawling blaze. Smoke blasted from the vents in thick, choking waves.
Gianni coughed hard, covering his mouth with his sleeve. “The fire’s spreading fast.”
“I know.”
“We can’t go in there, Atlas. It’s too dangerous…”
His words were drowned out by a new volley of gunfire. Someone screamed. Another explosion rattled the floor beneath us, sending dust and plaster raining down.
“ATLAS!” a voice boomed through the smoke.
I turned.
Marcello barreled toward us like a demon in a burning cathedral, his jaw clenched, pistol raised, eyes blazing with murder and adrenaline. Alessio was right behind him, firing controlled shots into the guards flanking the bar as he moved.
For a split second, I just stopped.
What the fuck were they doing here?
“What the hell?”
Marcello shouldered a half-conscious guard out of his way and strode straight to me.
“Gianni called. Told me you were neck-deep in shit and needed men you actually trust.”
Alessio reached us, chest heaving, gun already reloaded.
“Next time, brother, do us a favor and don’t start a damn war without giving us a heads-up.”
I stared at them. Relief hit so hard it felt like a punch to the chest.
Marcello clapped a hand to my shoulder. “You good?”
“No.” I shook my head once. “But you’re here. That’s enough.”
Gianni flashed a breathless grin. “Told you I’d bring backup.”
“Let’s go,” I snapped. “She’s behind the stage.”
And just like that, we moved.
Four men with one purpose. In one direction. On one mission.
The smoke thickened around us as we sprinted, painting the corridor in a sickly orange glow. Every breath burned. Fire crawled inside the walls, crackling, hungry, alive.
A guard burst out of a storage room. Marcello didn’t slow—he put a bullet through the man’s skull and kept running, blood misting across his cheek like war paint.
We hit the backstage corridor.
Bodies littered the floor. Some twitched. Some didn’t. Blood slicked the tiles. Screams echoed. A woman sobbed behind a curtain.
Alessio kicked open the first door. “Clear.”
I shoved open the next. Empty.
Another explosion rocked the ceiling. Beams groaned. Flames chewed through the joists.
The club was dying.
And she was still inside it.
“We find her,” I grated, vision tunneling with rage. “Or we all burn trying.”
We pushed deeper into hell.
Then I heard it.
A muffled cry.
My head snapped toward the final door at the end of the corridor—the only one not checked yet. My pulse spiked.
The door was locked.
“Move.”
Marcello barely got out of the way before I kicked. Once—the frame buckled. Twice—wood splintered. The third blow blew the door inward. And I saw red.
Viktor Sokolov stood inside the smoke-choked room, built like a slab of granite, Russian to the bone.
His meaty fist was wrapped around Neve’s arm, dragging her toward another door—a hidden exit.
Her mask was off, and there was no hiding what they’d done to her.
Blood streaked her skin. Her lip was split. One eye swollen, her cheek purple-black. But those hazel eyes—furious, defiant—locked onto mine.
I don’t know what I saw. It could have been recognition. Fear. Maybe even relief. All tangled together.
That’s right, baby. I’m the devil you do know.
Viktor yanked her in front of him like a shield.
“You’ve made a mistake coming here,” he snarled.
Marcello raised his gun. “Let her go.”
Viktor laughed, deep and ugly. “No. She’s compensation. My brother’s dead. And someone she knows killed him. Blood for blood.”
He drew a knife and pressed the serrated edge to her throat.
Neve trembled—just once—but didn’t make a sound as she shifted her neck, moving the blade away from her artery.
Good girl.
Viktor smirked. “You want her, Cavalho? Come and get her.”
I stepped forward.
Marcello grabbed my arm. “Atlas—don’t—”
I shook him off.
“Careful,” Viktor warned. “I’ll spill her before you reach—”
Neve moved.
She drove her heel into his shin and smashed her elbow into his ribs. He grunted, shocked, his grip loosening.
I hit him.
We banged into the wall. Metal crashed. Glass shattered. Viktor swung his knife wild; I caught his wrist and twisted, nearly snapping bone.
He punched me hard in the jaw. I barely felt it as I buried two blows into his ribs.
Neve stumbled back into the corner, hand at her throat, eyes wide as she watched us tear into each other.
Viktor lunged again. I slammed his knife-hand against the wall until his fingers finally opened. The knife clattered across the floor, skidding through blood and ash.
He roared, grabbed my collar, and tried to drive me backward. I twisted under him and hurled him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked, dust raining down like ash.
“You’re dead,” he spat, blood stringing from his mouth. “You interfere in Sokolov business—”
“You should’ve stayed the fuck away from her. And out of my territory.”
He head-butted me. White fire exploded behind my eyes. Before he could strike again, I hooked his arm and drove my knee into his stomach. He folded with a wet, choking sound.
I brought my elbow down onto the back of his neck.
He hit the floor.
Marcello moved in at my side. Alessio stayed planted at the hall, firing short, brutal bursts to keep anyone from reaching us.
“Kill him,” Marcello snapped. “End it.”
“Gladly.”
Viktor reached for the knife, blind and desperate.
Neve moved before I could.
She kicked the knife across the room—hard. It skidded to a stop at my feet.
Her eyes met mine. Bruised. Bloodshot. Burning with terror and something feral beneath it.
I picked up the knife.
Viktor spat. “You have no idea what war you’ve started, Don Cavalho.”
“I didn’t start it.” I stepped closer. “But I’ll damn well end it.”
He laughed, breath hitching. “All this over a woman?”
For the first time all night, the truth hit clean and absolute.
“She’s untouchable.”
I lifted the knife—
Gunfire erupted down the hall.
“ATLAS—MOVE!” Gianni yelled.
“Now!” Marcello added. “The ceiling’s coming down!”
I tightened my grip and shoved Viktor against the wall one last time, just to keep him stunned.
“Run,” I told Neve without looking at her. “Go with Marcello.”
She hesitated—chest heaving, eyes locked on me like I was both the devil and the thing standing between her and hell—but she moved. Marcello guided her out, steady hand at her back. Gianni covered the rear. Alessio laid down fire to keep the corridor clear.
Above us, the blaze roared like a starving animal, devouring beam after beam. Heat poured down in waves. The ceiling groaned, sagging, ready to collapse.
Viktor spat a thick rope of blood at my boots.
“You can’t protect her from me,” he wheezed.
I looked down at him. At what was left of him. At the filth that had dared to lay hands on her.
My rage cooled into something clean and final.
“You won’t be touching anything. Not where you’re going.”
I raised my gun and put a bullet through his skull.
His head snapped back. Blood misted the smoke-choked air. His body collapsed, finally still.
The ceiling cracked again. Fire licked down the walls.
I heard Marcello’s voice calling for me from the exit, just as I stepped over Viktor Sokolov’s lifeless body.