62. Nicolai
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
NICOLAI
My ribs ache, but it’s nothing compared to the fury flooding my veins.
I roll my shoulders, ignoring the pull of torn muscle, and crack my neck.
I breathe through the fire curling beneath my skin.
My fingers hover over my weapons. Checking, making sure every blade, every magazine, is exactly where it needs to be.
Enzo’s intel was solid. D’Angelo was inside the warehouse, waiting for a call that would never come, the confirmation of my death. He thought he had time. Thought he still had control.
I’ll let him keep believing it, for now.
Our cars sit blocks away, hidden in the alley of an abandoned lot. My men move in silence, slipping through the dark like shadows. Tactical gear as black as midnight, with their weapons at the ready.
Twelve guards surround the warehouse. A precautionary measure since D’Angelo knows I wouldn’t go down without a fight. That I’m not so easy to kill, and he’s most likely waiting for a phone call that will never come. I’m very much alive, stronzo, motherfucker. And I’m coming to get you.
When Mateo signals.
We move.
I step forward, my body a constant reminder of why we’re fucking here. Weakness does not exist in our world, and I’m living proof that the best man will win tonight.
Once we’re all in position, we wait until the snipers are in place. Then, one by one, those guards will be eliminated. A single bullet to the head will end them where they stand, and no one will be the wiser. Then we will infiltrate the abandoned slaughterhouse.
A finger twirl is all it takes before the first sniper takes out his target. Then it’s like watching a game of dominoes as they hit the ground one by one.
The calm that follows is heavier than the bodies now littering the ground. Not a single cry, no warning. Just the ruthless efficiency of death delivered from a distance.
I move forward, the warehouse looming ahead, my men advancing in tandem, ghosts woven into the dark. The scent of gunpowder hovers in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.
Enzo steps into the warehouse first, playing his part. I catch a glimpse of D’Angelo pacing by an old wooden bench; phone pressed to his ear.
“Well?” D’Angelo’s voice shudders. “You were supposed to call. Is he dead?”
“ Vecchio uomo , you’re impatient.” Old man. Mateo steps into the light behind Enzo. His semi-automatic rifle clutched tightly to his chest, finger at the ready. My lips twitch. Always loved that man’s flair for drama.
D’Angelo’s face goes sheet white. He lunges for the panic button under the workbench. The one I told him about two years ago, the arrogant prick. My knife leaves my hand before I decide to throw it.
The blade buries itself an inch from his fingers.
“Miss me?” I step into the haze of flickering fluorescents. Glock steady despite the pounding in my skull and the dried blood tearing at my back with every move. One bullet would end him, but for Luna, he’ll pay tenfold.
D’Angelo stumbles back, eyes wide. His phone hits the concrete with a crack. “N-no. You’re dead. I watched you?—”
“Bleed out? Choke on my own vomit? Drown?” I tap the barrel against his temple, savoring his flinch. “Takes more than a few scratches, broken fingers, and ribs to kill a king. Is that why you were waiting for Enzo’s call?”
A shuffle echoes from above.
Six of D’Angelo’s men lurk in the rafters above, rifles half-raised, frozen mid-reach. They’d been waiting for their boss’s signal, the one he’ll never give. My men pivot smoothly, weapons trained upward, a chorus of safeties clicking off.
“Tell your dogs to lower their guns,” I murmur, digging the Glock harder into D’Angelo’s skull. “Or I redecorate this warehouse with your brains.”
His throat works. “D-don’t shoot! Non sparare! ”
One of the goons wavers, finger hovering over his trigger. Mateo doesn’t. A shot rips through the air.
The man drops, screaming, his kneecap blown to a pulp.
“Next one dies,” Mateo growls.
D’Angelo’s remaining men lower their weapons, hands trembling. Good. Rats always scatter when you burn their nest.
I lean closer, my breath a whisper. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.” My thumb caresses the Glock’s hammer. “But don’t worry. I won’t make that same mistake.”
His piss-soaked fear curdles the air. “Nico, wait—we can?—”
I catch a flicker of movement in the dimness. One of his men lunges for a discarded pistol. I don’t blink. I aim and pull the trigger.
The guy crumples, my bullet between his eyes, before his fingers graze the grip. Blood pools glossy-black underneath him.
D’Angelo tries reaching for my knife, and I press the smoking barrel against his head. “Too slow. Is anyone else feeling heroic?”
I point toward the switchblade on the floor. Mateo steps forward, picks it up, closes it, and hands it to me. I tuck it into my pocket without breaking eye contact.
“Didn’t think so.” I smile sardonically. “Now. Let’s discuss your retirement plan.”
The warehouse door creaks open with a groan, and D’Angelo’s head snaps toward the sound. He fucking whimpers. His traitorous men stand in the doorway, faces hard, weapons slung loose at their sides. No loyalty left in their eyes. Only revenge.
“Recognize them?” I tilt my head, watching the blood drain from D’Angelo’s face. “Even loyal men know when it’s time to replace a falling leader.”
One of the defectors, a wiry man named Vico, once D’Angelo’s right hand, steps forward. He tosses a bloodied pendant onto the concrete. The same one D’Angelo gifted his inner circle years ago, a symbol of “brotherhood.” It skids to a stop near his polished wing-tipped shoes.
“You…” D’Angelo chokes. “Traitors!” Vico’s lip curls.
“You sent my brother to die last week. Over a parking dispute.” He spits at D’Angelo’s feet. “The famiglia is dead. Nico’s our Boss now.”
The words hang, sharp as a guillotine.
I step back, and D’Angelo staggers. His chest heaves, eyes darting back and forth between Mateo, me, and the defectors.
“You see?” I holster the Glock. “No empire. No allies. Just you, and the consequences of your indiscretions.”
His gaze flicks to the rafters, where his last loyal thugs stand paralyzed. They glance down at their comrades below, staring at them with icy detachment.
I turn to my newly appointed soldiers, waiting for my first command. “Clear the rafters.” My voice is ice. “Anyone left standing with his brand dies tonight.”
They move without hesitation, swarming the upper platforms. A few muffled screams and several gunshots later, it’s over.
D’Angelo collapses to his knees, fingers scrabbling at my boots. “Nico— please . I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear my name again!”
I crouch, gripping his jaw hard enough to bruise. “You’re right. I won’t.” My thumb presses into the hollow of his throat. “But first, you’ll learn what it means to beg.”
I nod to Enzo, who drags a rusted metal crate into the center of the room—tools glint inside: pliers, a blowtorch, hooks flecked with old blood. D’Angelo’s toys, repurposed.
D’Angelo sags against my fist. “What do you want? Money? Territory?” His laugh splinters, hysterical. “Take it! Take all of it!”
“It’s already mine, suocero. ” Father-in-law. I rise, slow but deliberate, my hands fisting his shirt and yanking him to his feet. We’re nose-to-nose now. “I’m going to make you suffer for not protecting your daughter.” D’Angelo sobs.
Mateo leans against the wall, rifle at his side. “Want me to record this for posterity? Could make a nice training video.”
“Tempting.” I select a jagged, serrated blade, testing its edge against my palm. A bead of blood wells. “But this is private.”
Vico hangs back, arms crossed. “You promised me five minutes with him,” he says flatly.
I toss him the blade. “Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll grant you and your men the pleasure of stringing him up. Then you can take turns, but I want him alive when I walk back inside. He’s mine.”
As the first scream tears through the warehouse, I step outside. The night air is already thick with the stench of death, but it’s not over yet. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, too little, too late as always.
Not long after, Mateo joins me, blood speckling his sleeves. “The men are already moving on D’Angelo’s compounds. By dawn, the city’s yours.”