Chapter 15
MARCO
I’ve fucking lost my mind. Unprotected sex! Seriously?
It isn’t just the idea of accidentally creating a child that has me rattled, although I can’t deny I nearly had a heart attack.
What has me shook is how I completely lost control.
I’ve always known that Gabriella has a dangerous power over me, but never have I ever been so lost in desire as to forget a condom.
I’m pissed at myself for getting so caught up and then blaming Gabriella for it.
She’s right. I am a shitty person.
When she left the sauna, I didn’t follow her at first, not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew I’d fuck things up even more.
As I sat there in the hot steam, I scraped my hands down my face, chastising myself for being a dick.
After all, she said everything was fine. Nothing to worry about.
And that’s when the image flashed in my mind. Gabriella, full and round with my child.
Panic wasn’t the first emotion that came from that thought, which doesn’t make sense considering I've built my life around avoiding exactly this scenario.
My plan is no wife, no children, no permanent attachments. No chance to become my father.
Another image manifests. A dark-haired child with Gabriella's smile and zest for life.
Strangely, the thought doesn't repulse me like it should. It doesn’t change my plans.
After all, the way I reacted and treated Gabriella proves I’m not marriage or family material.
She even said so.
…the truth is, you are unlovable, Marco, because you treat people like shit.
No wonder she ran out of here like a bat out of hell.
If she did get pregnant, I’d do what I needed to do.
I’d marry her. I’d protect her and the child, but part of that protection would have to be from me.
It wouldn’t be long before she was unhappy, resentful. It’s a relief to know that’s not in our future.
My phone rings again, jarring me out of my ruminations. I grab it from the table, seeing Roman's name flashing on the screen.
"Roman, what is it?"
“We have a situation at Antonio’s warehouse in Jersey.”
"I'll meet you there in thirty," I tell Roman, ending the call.
I quickly dress, my mind already shifting to business mode.
The warehouse situation provides the perfect escape from whatever the hell just happened between Gabriella and me.
I’d like to shower first, especially since I swear Gabriella’s scent is lingering on my skin. But duty calls.
I rush up the stairs, two-by-two. “I’m heading out,” I tell Carlos as I make my way to my office to grab my gun. “Make sure our guest stays put.”
I don’t think Gabriella will try and leave, but I hurt her enough that she just might book her own flight to Italy. My mind tells me that would be best. The ache in my chest hopes she doesn’t.
I force myself to leave before I do something stupid like go up to her room and beg her to stay.
I slide into my car, the confusion and vulnerability of moments ago fading as I focus on work.
The engine roars to life, and I peel out of the garage, welcoming the adrenaline of the danger I’m about to walk into.
I replay in my mind the issues we’ve had with Antonio’s assets before. Most have remained in Manhattan.
Whoever is fucking with him has decided to target his warehouse in New Jersey.
Are they making the rounds, wanting to hit Antonio from all sides to show he’s vulnerable everywhere?
Or is it because we have more resources paying attention to Antonio’s business and they thought the New Jersey warehouse would be an easier target?
I pull up to the warehouse and Roman's already there, leaning against his car talking with Frank.
A group of five men, two of mine and three of Antonio's, linger near a loading dock. I count a total of eight men including me, Roman, and Frank.
"What's the situation?" I ask.
"Security system flagged unauthorized entry through the east side," Roman explains, keeping his voice low. "Cameras went dark immediately after. Could be professionals, could be amateurs who got lucky."
I frown. “Why am I here? Surely, your men can check this,” I say to Frank.
“Don Monti asked that I loop you in on all potential issues,” Frank says with a shrug, as if he knows this is probably not something requiring my attention.
“Okay. Well, if anything, it will be good training practice. Frank, take three men and sweep the north section. I want a team checking the offices on the second floor. Roman and I will take the main storage area."
"I was thinking we should check the south loading docks. That's where the high-value merchandise is,” Frank says.
"Fine. Take your three men to check it out. Roman and I will check the storage and my other two will go up to the offices.”
“Sounds good,” Frank says and then nods to his men.
“Stay on comms,” I say as we move out. I draw my gun, checking the magazine more from habit than necessity.
Roman does the same beside me, our movements synchronized from years of working together.
The area is quiet. Almost too quiet. “It feels off, doesn’t it?”
Roman nods almost imperceptibly.
We enter through a side door, moving silently across the concrete floor.
The warehouse is a cavernous space filled with shipping containers and pallets stacked with goods.
We weave our way through various rows. All I hear is the sound of my own breath. I’m about ready to suggest whoever triggered the alarm isn’t here when a shot rings out, hitting a crate just by my left ear.
I dive behind a crate as more bullets pepper the spot where I was standing.
Roman rolls in the opposite direction, returning fire. “Where the fuck is he?”
“How many are there?” I ask as the warehouse erupts into chaos. Shouting, gunfire, pinging of bullets hitting wood, metal, and concrete.
"We're pinned down!" Roman shouts over the comms. "East and west positions!"
I peek around my cover, catching a glimpse of movement on the catwalk above.
I fire twice, hearing a grunt as at least one bullet finds its mark.
I hear it then, more shots outside the main storage. This wasn't a random break-in. This is a trap.
“Report!” I growl into my comm.
Nothing but static.
I pivot from my cover, signaling to Roman with a quick hand gesture. Three fingers. Count of three. He nods, understanding instantly.
One. I check my weapon.
Two. I take a deep breath.
Three.
We move together, bursting from opposite sides of our cover.
My first shot catches a gunman in the throat before he can react. Roman drops another. My world narrows to targets and trajectories.
"Two o'clock!" Roman shouts.
I swing right, firing twice at a shadow moving between containers. A scream tells me I've hit something vital.
No time to confirm.
Another attacker appears on my left, gun already raised.
I drop to one knee, the bullet whistling over my head as I put two rounds in his chest.
Blood sprays across the side of a crate.
"Moving up!" I call to Roman, who provides covering fire as I sprint to a better position.
A man lunges at me from behind a crate, too close to shoot. I slam the butt of my gun into his face, feeling cartilage crunch.
He staggers back. I finish him with a shot to the head.
"Marco, on your six!"
I drop and roll as bullets ping around me. Roman takes the shooter down with a perfect headshot.
We've done this dance so many times, it's muscle memory and why we’re still alive today.
“Report!” I call again through the comm. Are the others dead?
Three more attackers emerge from the shadows, shots ringing out.
Roman jerks back. “Mother fucker!”
“Are you hit?”
“Grazed.” Roman, pissed off now, spins and fires a shot that hits its mark right between the eyes.
I reload my weapon, scanning the perimeter for more threats as the echoes of gunfire fade into an eerie silence. The warehouse stinks of sulfur.
"Clear on the east side," Roman calls, his voice steady as if he’s taking a walk through the park.
Movement catches my eye, Frank sprinting toward us from the south section, gun drawn. Behind him, three of Antonio's men advance cautiously, weapons ready.
Frank spots an attacker clearly trying to make his escape. Without hesitation, Frank puts two rounds in the man's chest.
“What the hell?” Frank asks, joining us in the center of the warehouse floor.
I call for my men again, but there is no answer.
“They’re dead,” Frank says. “We heard shots fired in the offices first and rushed there, but too late. Then we heard a fucking war over here?” He looks around at the carnage and shakes his head. “These fuckers are growing braver.”
I close my eyes, hating that I’ve lost men. It’s a part of the world we live in, but it’s still fucked.
I holster my weapon, surveying the area around us. Eight bodies that I can count.
Not random thieves or rival soldiers making a territory grab.
These men were professionals. Had to be with the amount of coordination it took to pull this off.
"Check for ID," I order, already kneeling beside the nearest corpse.
The man's face is unfamiliar, his clothing nondescript.
No tattoos, no distinctive markings.
I search his pockets, finding nothing but a burner phone and a key card with no identifying features.
Roman turns over another body, his expression darkening. "Nothing. No wallets, no phones except burners. These guys are ghosts."
Frank examines a third attacker. "Same here. No identifying marks. No gang tattoos. Nothing connecting them to any Family I recognize." He nods to his other men. “You know them?”
Roman crouches beside one of the dead men, examining the tactical gear. "Military-grade equipment. Not your average street soldiers."
“Frank, how did you hear about this?” I ask.
“Like I said. Got a call from security. Why?”
“I suppose everyone knows you’d respond. How about me and Roman? Would anyone have known that?”
Roman’s brows lift. “You think this could have been a setup for us, specifically.”
I shrug. “I don’t know, but Antonio’s best men are here. Me and my best men are here…”
“Fuck.” Frank says, blowing out a breath. “We were all sitting ducks.”