35. Chapter Thirty Five #2
The street erupts into noise as the SUVs brake across the roadway and doors open. My brothers are out before the vehicles have fully stopped, security spreading around them and returning fire toward the men behind us.
“Down!” someone shouts.
I pull Donna with me toward the recessed doorway of a closed business while Mocha presses close beside her. We stay there until the gunfire shifts away from us and toward Greco’s remaining people.
Mario reaches us first.
His gaze moves over me, then Donna, then Mocha, checking all three of us before he says anything.
“You’re hurt?”
“No.”
Donna shakes her head. “We’re okay.”
Ricardo and Diego arrive seconds later, but they are not alone. Matteo and Tomasso are with them, Dante only a step behind, and then I see Edoardo and Alessio moving in with the rest of the family, all armed and ready to protect us at all costs and eliminate Greco permanently.
My sons.
Even though they weren't in danger themselves, relief still hits me hard at the sight of them.
I turn to Mario. “Rinaldi? Do you know?”
Mario nods. “Alive. He was injured when the SUV went off the road, but he managed to make it clear of whatever they were using to jam the phones. He called me.”
The pressure in my chest eases all at once.
“How badly is he hurt?”
“He wanted to come after you himself, but I forced him to stay behind.”
“Other casualties?” I ask.
“We don't know the extent of it yet,” Mario says. “But we did lose some.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
Donna’s hand closes around mine.
“That bastard Greco,” I growl. “He is going to answer for every one of them.”
Mario’s expression hardens. “He will.”
Before I can say anything else, a shout tears across the street behind us.
“CONTI!”
Everyone turns.
Marcello comes around the corner with a gun in his hand and what remains of his composure gone completely. Two of his men are behind him, but they hesitate the moment they see what is waiting for them.
Diego and Ricardo stand near the front. Matteo, Tomasso, Dante, Edoardo, and Alessio spread out with the security detail, every one of them armed and focused on Greco.
His gaze moves across the group.
Then it lands on Alessio.
Something ugly twists across his face.
I step slightly forward before I even think about it.
Greco looks from my son to Donna, then finally back to me, and I watch the realization settle over him.
He has lost.
Everything he planned, everything he tried to take from me, is standing here alive.
“You think this is over?” he demands.
I raise my gun. “Yes.”
Around me, my brothers, my sons, my nephews, and my people bring their weapons up with mine.
Marcello Greco has nowhere left to run.
Greco’s gaze flicks toward Alessio again, and whatever restraint he had left disappears from his face.
“You should have been the one,” he says. “You should be dead. Not my Angelo. Not my boy.” His voice breaks on those last words.
The man has clearly lost his sanity in his grief. I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
Then I think of my son being targeted and arrested. I think of Donna’s home and office torn apart. Rinaldi lying in the street, trying to call for help. Donna as she begs me not to surrender myself for her while Greco tries to smash through the door.
Whatever sympathy tries to surface dies there.
I move another step forward, putting myself squarely between Greco and my family.
“You loved your son,” I say. “That does not give you the right to take mine.”
His attention jerks back to me, and the gun in his hand rises another inch.
“Your son is alive,” Greco says, his voice turning bitter. “Mine is in the ground.”
“And murdering Alessio would not have changed that.”
His mouth twists. “It would have made us even.”
“No,” I say. “I did not murder your son, but you would have murdered mine. We would not have been even.”
Greco’s expression twists. “You took away everything that kept him safe.”
“Maybe, but Angelo made choices that put him in prison.”
His eyes flash with fury. “You and your family aren't exactly saints, Conti.”
“No, we’re not,” I say. “But we don't claim to be.”
Greco stares at me for another second, but whatever argument he might have made dies when a siren sounds somewhere in the distance.
His head turns sharply toward the noise.
“It’s over, Marcello,” Mario says.
Greco looks around at the armed line facing him, at his two remaining men, then toward the road as the sirens grow louder.
One of the men behind him lowers his gun.
“Boss,” he says quietly.
Greco whips around. “Don’t.”
The second man hesitates, then lowers his weapon too.
Marcello looks around, wild-eyed, before finally lowering his weapon as well.
One of Mario’s people moves forward cautiously, his gun still trained on Greco while another starts toward the two men who have already surrendered.
The sirens are coming closer now. Typically I would be the one to deal with police and do the cleanup on a situation like this, but I don't know if I have it in me tonight.
For the first time since Marcello came around that corner, it feels finished, and I just want to go home.
My attention shifts to Alessio.
After everything Greco has said about him tonight, I need to see my son’s face.
Our eyes meet, and I'm relieved to see that he understands that, no matter what Greco says, he is nothing like Angelo.
Then something in his expression changes.
His eyes widen, and his focus snaps past my shoulder as every trace of relief disappears from his face.
I know before he says a word.
Greco.
I start to turn.
A gunshot tears through the night.