Chapter 16
THIS IS FOR HER
LUCIAN
Palermo smells like salt, stone, and spilled blood no one bothered to clean up.
The compound sits outside the city, tucked into the cliffs overlooking the sea. Built like a fortress with old money to protect against older enemies.
Getting in isn’t easy. But it’s not impossible.
I have all the data: blueprints, guard patterns, and even how the shadows move with the sun, moon, and lighting at night, thanks to Logan and the satellite data he hacked.
I circle the perimeter at sunset, watching the guards, and waiting for the shift change
People follow patterns. Because they are lazy, and it’s that laziness a predator like me looks for. If there’s a rhythm to something, it can be disturbed.
By the time midnight hits, I know which of the three soft spots Logan had identified would be the one I’d hit.
The most promising one is along the north wall, where the rock has eroded just enough to weaken the foundation.
I scale it fast, silent as a shadow. No flashy tech, no high-end bullshit. Just gloves, a grappling hook, and muscle memory.
Once on top, I pause, crouched low.
Two guards patrol the rooftop, smoking. They’re laughing like idiots. They don’t even see me until it’s too late.
I take them both down before they can draw breath. One quick strike to the throat, the other a blade between the ribs.
Fast. Clean. Easy.
I move through the compound like a ghost. Stone corridors, heavy wooden doors, flickering sconces that throw light in all the wrong places.
Remo Morello is sleeping in the master wing. He didn’t even post a second guard outside his bedroom door. Arrogant bastard thinks he’s untouchable, that his money and bloodlines make him immortal. He’s killed enough to know better.
I slip inside, knife in one hand, gun in the other.
Remo stirs, sensing something—too little, too late. His eyes fly open, but I’m already standing over him—an angel of death. He scrambles back against the headboard, half-naked, cursing in Italian.
“Che cazzo sei?” What the fuck are you?
I press the muzzle of my gun to his forehead.
My heart isn’t racing.
My hand doesn’t shake.
“Questo è per la mia Calistina.” This is for my Calista.
He freezes as recognition flashes across his face.
There’s fear. There’s rage.
I pull the trigger.
The silencer muffles the shot.
Remo’s body slumps forward, dead before he even understands the cost of his sins.
Getting out isn’t clean.
Someone hears something. A shout echoes through the stone halls.
I run, blood singing through my veins, cutting through the shadows toward the sea-facing side of the compound.
Another guard spots me—draws too slow. I take him down with a hard blow to the jaw, leaving him crumpled on the floor.
More yelling behind me now. Footsteps pounding on the stone.
“Remo è morto!” I hear someone yell.
Now they know Remo is dead. Now they’ll hunt me in earnest.
I slip through a service door and sprint into the night.
Shots ring out behind me, bullets slicing the air too close.
I dive over the wall just as floodlights fill the courtyard. The fall jars every bone in my body. I roll, tuck, and keep running down the cliffside, into the scrub, disappearing into the night.
I hit the edge of the city, and get into the helicopter waiting for me.
“You need medical assistance?” the pilot asks.
I perform inventory. Blood stains my shirt. There’s a gash over my ribs from a lucky shot. A few knife wounds here and there.
I’m breathing. Remo is not.
“Flesh wounds,” I tell the pilot.
He speaks into the headset as we take off. Less than an hour after I put a bullet into Remo, I’m on a private plane, headed back to New York.
A Maddox medic patches me up on the flight while I nurse a scotch.
My wounds throb in time with my heart.
I close my eyes and think of her—my Calista, safe, free, living without fear—and somehow, the pain in my body feels like a promise kept.