60. Nicolai
CHAPTER SIXTY
NICOLAI
The air in the safehouse is stale, and it reeks of antiseptic and burnt coffee. I sit on the exam table, while the medic’s needle is pulling at my skin. Each stitch burns, but I barely feel it. I’ll be yanking off the god damn splints on my left fingers when Antonio leaves the room.
My grip tightens around the phone in my hand. No calls from Bria. Again.
Luna leans against the wall with a vacant stare on her face, like she’s replaying the doctor’s words over and over. Baby’s fine. Just breathe.
I insisted that Luna be treated first, so Antonio did a full exam.
He was afraid of a uterine rupture, but thank fuck the wound wasn’t too deep.
She was given antibiotics just in case, and they carefully closed and dressed the wound.
Luna’s supposed to get some rest, but sleep won’t come. Her mind refuses to surrender.
Glancing down at my phone, I swipe my thumb across the screen, but there’s nothing. No new messages. No missed calls. Fuck!
Behind me, my mother’s heels snap against the floor, a constant, clicking rhythm that grates on my every nerve.
“We should’ve never left the villa,” she mutters. “I told you the D’Angelos were vipers, Nicolai. Vipers.”
“The villa’s gone. Now sit before you drive me insane with all that pacing.” I fume, refusing to look at her.
She spins, furious. “Sit?” Her voice bristles. “Your sister is God-knows-where, and you’re?—”
“Enough.” The word cuts through the room, sharper than the needle digging into my skin. I lift my eyes, fury in my gaze. “You think I don’t know? That I’m not concerned?”
The medic flinches but keeps stitching.
Luna pushes off the wall, arms tight across her chest. “Bria’s smart. She’ll find a way out.”
My grip tightens around the phone, but when I look at Luna, something eases, just a fraction. “She’s seventeen, Luna. They’ll use her as a?—”
“Don’t.” She steps closer, her hand hovering over mine. “We’ll get her back. But you’re no good to her if you’re dead.”
I study her face, reading the fear she’s desperately trying to hide. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” She nods to the medic. “Tell him.” The medic clears his throat.
“Two broken ribs, three broken fingers, Grade Two concussion, bruising and lacerations on your back, blood loss requiring transfusion, and?—”
“Stop talking!” I grab the scalpel from the tray. “Out.”
He retreats without another word. My mother follows, muttering prayers to saints who’ve never listened.
And then it’s just us.
Luna.
I grip her hips, pulling her between my knees, pressing my forehead against her sternum. Her warmth. Her breath. The continual drum of her heartbeat.
They have my sister.
Her fingers thread through my hair. Matted, damp, and bloody. “We’ll burn their world down. Together.”
I exhale, the sound raw. “I need you safe. Both of you.”
Her grip tightens. “Safe?” She tilts my chin up, forcing my gaze to hers. “I want them all dead, and you don’t get to bench me now.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Stubborn.”
“Learned from the best.”
The door bursts open, and Mateo strides in with rage burning in his eyes.
He tosses a burner phone onto the table. “I traced Bria’s last ping. Abandoned church on Via Marconi. It’s heavily guarded.”
I stand too fast. Wrong move. The room tilts, my pulse hammering in my skull.
Luna catches me, palm flat over my chest, right over my racing heart. “Antonio!”
“No.” I grip her arm, the heat of her skin anchoring me when everything else is slipping away. “We move now. D’Angelo will transfer her soon.”
“You can’t even walk?—”
I cut her off the only way I know how. A kiss, ferocious and desperate with promise.
“Watch me.”
The door slams open. My mother.
She holds up her phone, face pale as a ghost. A video plays—Bria, gagged, a pistol pressed to her temple.
A voice rasps through the static. “An eye for an eye, Nicolai. Come alone, or she joins Dante.”
I freeze, but blood boils in my veins. My world spins, my vision pulls inward, darkening at the edges. Voices fade, and all that remains is rage.
Luna grabs my face, dragging my focus back to her. “Look at me. This is a trap.”
“I know.” My voice hollow.
Then I grip the back of her neck, pulling her in, crashing against her lips like I’m drowning, because maybe I am. Our kiss is a silent scream of everything I can’t voice. I’m sorry. This isn’t enough. Forgive me. Her fingers grip my shirt, anchoring me to her, as if she already knows it’s goodbye.
I force myself to pull away, breathing hard. “I promise you amore mio ,” my voice is raw, “the next time you see me, we will be free.”
“And we both know how good you are at keeping your promises, right, Nico?” I blow out a breath, shaking my head.
“Keep talking, Luna.” She gives me a crooked smile, eyes glassy. Like she’s daring me to keep my promise.
“Oh, I intend to.” Then I turn and leave, because if I don’t, I won’t survive walking away.
Blood surges through my veins the moment I step outside, not from fear, not from pain, but from rage. Bria is out there, waiting. Terrified. And I will carve through every last D’Angelo bastard and soldier standing between us.
I shove a fresh clip into my Glock, jaw locked so tight it aches. Mateo is at my side, gun loaded, eyes dark with vengeance. My men are just waiting for my command.
Enzo’s voice crackles through the burner. “They’re moving her soon. Three SUVs, a dozen men inside, and guards on the outside. Some are ex-military.”
Good. It wouldn’t be a fight without bloodshed. And I can guarantee you it won’t be my sisters either.
I roll my shoulders, forcing my body to comply. The bruises, the broken ribs, they don’t matter. Not tonight.
“We cut them off before they reach the convoy.” Mateo gives a curt nod.
“We kill them fast. No survivors.” No hesitation.
Not until Bria is back in my arms.
The SUV sways as we take a tight turn, nearing the abandoned church. My fingers tighten around the grip of my pistol.
The van screeches to a halt, the scent of burning rubber mixing with the bitter cold. Mateo wastes no time. His voice clipped, commanding, slicing through the tension as he gestures to the men.
“Ronan, flank left. Two on the back entrance. No one gets out.”
The men split up, moving like ghosts in the dark, silent and deadly. Weapons click, safeties flicking off, adrenaline humming through the air.
I step out onto the pavement, the wind biting, the cold gnawing at the wounds I refuse to feel.
My ribs scream with each movement, my vision swims if I turn too fast, but none of it matters.
Not when Bria is inside that church, terrified.
Not when the bastards who captured me and my wife and burned my villa to the ground think they still hold control.
Mateo looks at me, his expression like granite. “We breach fast and loud.” I jerk my chin once.
The church looms ahead, a mausoleum dressed in stained glass and crumbling stone. Shadows pool in the broken archways, the air thick with the smell of dampness and mold. It’s silent, too silent.
Mateo signals. Move.
The front doors explode, wood splintering under the force of our entrance. Gunfire erupts instantly, erratic, panicked. The D’Angelo soldiers scramble, barking orders.
I raise my Glock and fire, precise and merciless. A bullet takes the first guard in the throat, and he drops without a sound. Another reaches for his rifle, too slow. My shot finds his ribs, tearing through flesh and bone, his body crumpling against the pew.
Chaos swallows the church.
I move through it, focused, unrelenting. My world narrows to one singular point.
Bria.
She’s strapped to a chair behind the altar, eyes wild with terror. The man behind her grips a pistol, pressing it against her temple as his gaze locks onto mine.
A mistake. His last.
Bria jerks, and her chair crashes to the floor. Good girl, she remembered the lesson I taught her all those years ago.
I’m already firing. The bullet tears through his skull, painting the wall behind him in crimson.
I push off the pillar, every breath a knife to my ribs. My boots slip on blood-slick tile as I stagger toward her. Bria’s chair is tipped, her body twisted awkwardly, but she’s breathing.
I drop to one knee, her breaths coming fast and uneven. My blade slices through her restraints, then the gag. “Bria, are you hurt?” My voice trembles, “Can you stand?”
Her shaky fingers clutch my arm. “I don’t know.” Her grip tightens. “Just don’t let go.”
Mateo’s voice shouts over the commotion, gunfire still raging. More men spill from the sanctuary, weapons raised.
I rise, positioning myself between Bria and the rebellion, my gun secure, my pulse unforgiving. Her fingers clutch my waist from behind, trembling but firm. I won’t let them touch her.
The D’Angelo men falter, glancing at the ones who have already turned, who now fight at my side, their loyalties stripped by betrayal.
Enzo steps forward, and with that single move, the D’Angelo legacy fractures forever.
The ones still holding their ground? The ones clinging to a sinking empire?
They should run. But they won’t get too far.
I tilt my head, my voice echoing in the church. “You sold yourself to the wrong devil.” And then one by one, my men and I obliterate them.
Bria clings to my waist, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Her body trembles against mine. “I’m not leaving you,” she whispers. Her eyes flick to the carnage—to the bodies, the blood, the smoke curling in the cold air—and she shudders, chest hitching like she might be sick.
I turn, just enough to press my palm to her cheek, forcing her gaze to mine. “You’re safe now, topolina. Listen to me.” Her fingers tighten on my sleeve.
“I’m not safe if we’re still here,” she murmurs, voice cracking. I exhale slowly, calming her and steadying myself.
“You will be. Mateo’s sending you back with Massimo and Ronan. They’ll die before they let anyone touch you again.” She shakes her head, but I don’t give her the chance to argue. I grip her jaw, gentle but firm.
“I need you alive, Bria. I need you far away from what happens next. You’ve already seen too much.” Her lip trembles, but she understands. I press a kiss to her temple, then pull away, turning to Massimo and Ronan.
“Get her to the safe house. And whatever you do, do not stop.” They secure Bria between them before leading her toward the waiting car. I watch until the taillights vanish into the night. Then I turn to Mateo. His expression, lifeless.
“Where’s D’Angelo?”
Enzo steps forward, phone in hand. “The isolated slaughterhouse off Route 9. They’re waiting for word you’re dead.”
I load a fresh clip into my Glock. “They won’t get it.”
Mateo’s smile is sardonic. “No bullets?”
I shake my head. “No bullets.”
Engines growl as a line of blacked-out SUVs rumbles through the empty streets. Mateo drives, fingers fixed on the wheel; his expression is composed. The others follow, headlights slicing through the blackness of night, weapons loaded, minds locked on the war ahead.
I sit in the passenger seat, silent, breathing through the fire curling in my chest. Every bump in the road is a reminder of my battered body, but pain is inconsequential.
D’Angelo never received the call he was waiting for, the one confirming my death.
He’ll be waiting. I’ll let him go on thinking he’s prepared, but he’s not.
The rage of the storm has now been unleashed.