Chapter 16 #2
Before we'd left for the pier, I'd pulled him aside in the penthouse. Told him about the baby. Made him promise to protect Paola if I didn't make it back. He'd gripped my shoulder, said, "We both make it back. You, me, Paola, and that kid. No one gets left behind."
Now here we were—both about to die if my plan didn't work.
Viktor returned, tucking his phone away. "My people are verifying. Should take five minutes. While we wait, let's discuss the terms of Piero's release."
"You get the documents, I get my brother. That was the deal."
"Ah, but deals can be... renegotiated." Viktor's smile was predatory. "For instance, I'm thinking Piero stays with me. Insurance. To make sure you honor these transfers."
"That wasn't the agreement."
"It is now. Unless you'd like to renegotiate?" He pulled a gun, aimed it casually at Piero's head. "I'm flexible."
The weapon gleamed in the morning sun. Piero didn't flinch—either too hurt or too proud to show fear.
I calculated angles, distances, odds. All bad.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"In addition to the territory? Let's see..." Viktor pretended to think. "Your wife. Paola. I'd like her delivered to me by the end of the week."
"Never going to happen."
"Then Piero stays. Permanently."
Viktor's phone buzzed. He answered, listened. His expression changed—fury replacing satisfaction like a storm cloud covering the sun.
"The documents are fake." His voice was deadly quiet. "The accounts don't exist. The transfers are fraudulent."
I didn't flinch. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You tried to trick me." Viktor's gun swung from Piero to me. "Big mistake."
This was it. The moment where everything went to hell.
My hand moved toward my watch—the signal.
But before I could remove it, Viktor's men were on me. They slammed me to the ground, weapons trained on my head, my chest, my spine.
Viktor stood over me. "Did you really think I wouldn't verify? Did you think I was that stupid?"
"Worth a shot." I tasted blood from my split lip.
"Your brother dies first. Then you. Slowly. I want you to watch him bleed out before I put a bullet in your skull."
Viktor's finger tightened on the trigger.
Gunfire erupted—not from Viktor's gun, but from the warehouses.
Giulio's snipers, taking out Viktor's men with surgical precision.
Chaos exploded. Viktor's men returned fire. I rolled, tackled the guard nearest me, drove my elbow into his throat.
I couldn't get the signal out, but my team came anyway. Thirty seconds had passed, and they'd moved despite the risk.
Boats roared up to the pier—my extraction team. Giulio and operators stormed the dock, weapons up, engaging Viktor's men in a symphony of controlled violence.
I caught a glimpse of Rosa Vasquez among the tactical team—Piero's assistant, wearing FBI tactical gear, weapon drawn. What the hell was she doing here? But there was no time to process it. She moved with the other agents, professional, trained.
Later. I'd deal with that later.
I fought my way to Piero, pulled a knife from a fallen guard's belt, cut my brother's bonds.
"Can you walk?"
"Can I not die here? That's the real question."
I hauled him up, supported his weight. We moved toward the extraction boats through the firefight.
Bullets flew. Someone went down—one of Viktor's men, then another. Giulio provided covering fire, his team moving like a well-oiled machine.
"Move! Now!"
We were almost to the boats when Viktor appeared, blocking our path, bleeding from his shoulder but still armed. Still dangerous.
"You don't get to win," he snarled. "Not this time."
He raised his gun—aimed at Piero.
I didn't think. Just reacted. Threw myself in front of my brother.
The shot rang out.
Pain exploded in my chest. It was like being hit with a sledgehammer wrapped in fire.
I went down hard, vision swimming. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't—
Above me, more gunfire. Giulio taking Viktor down. Finally.
Piero's face swam into view. "Cesare! No, no, no—"
"Get him out," I managed. "Get him to the boat."
"Not without you, you idiot!"
More hands. Giulio. Lifting us both. Moving us through the chaos.
The boat. Water. Speed.
Paola's voice—screaming my name. When did she get here? She was supposed to stay back with Rocco.
Her hands on my face. "Stay with me. Cesare, stay with me!"
I tried to answer. Couldn't. The world was fading, edges going dark.
The boat raced across the East River. Medics working on me—pressure on the wound, IV started, hands moving with professional efficiency.
"Bullet hit the vest," someone said. "Cracked ribs, maybe a punctured lung. But he's alive."
Wait—vest? I processed through the pain. I was wearing a vest. Right. She'd refused to let me leave without it. Made me put it on for her. For the baby.
Paola's voice cut through the fog: "I told you that vest was non-negotiable." She'd saved my life. And then disobeyed my orders by coming to the pier anyway.
"Told you... to stay... in the vehicle," I managed.
"I don't follow orders well. You know this about me."
Despite the pain, I almost smiled.
Piero was being treated on the other side of the boat, conscious and alive.
"Viktor?" I asked.
Giulio's voice: "Down. Not dead, but down. Police are en route. He'll be arrested, not executed."
Good. Viktor in prison was better than Viktor as a martyr. Better than making him a legend.
We docked at a private marina. Ambulances were waiting—medical teams I'd arranged months ago for exactly this kind of emergency. Paola refused to leave my side. She held my hand the entire ride, her grip fierce and desperate.
"The baby," I said through the pain. "You shouldn't have—"
"Is fine. I'm fine. You're the one with a bullet in you."
"Vest stopped it."
"Barely. You could have died."
"But I didn't. We didn't." I squeezed her hand weakly. "We won, Paola."
"This isn't winning. This is surviving. There's a difference."
Maybe. But right now, survival felt like enough.
At the hospital—one I owned enough of to ensure privacy—doctors took over. Surgery prep for my punctured lung. Treatment teams for Piero's injuries.
A nurse tried to separate Paola from me as they prepped me for the OR. "Ma'am, you can't go into surgery—"
My hand tightened on hers. Wouldn't let go.
My eyes found hers. "Stay close. Until I have to go under."
"I'm not going anywhere," she promised.
They wheeled me toward the operating room. She walked beside the gurney as far as they'd let her, her hand warm in mine.
At the OR doors, she had to stop. Hospital policy. Sterile environment.
My hand slipped from hers.
The last thing I saw before the doors closed: her eyes on mine, green and fierce and terrified, one hand pressed to her stomach where our child grew.
Then the doors swung shut, and the anesthesia pulled me under.