Chapter 12 - Azrael
I stand by the broken window of the remote safe house south of Rome, a crumbling stone barn hidden among scrub and gnarled pines.
My boots scuff the warped floorboards, my black jacket hanging heavy, still soaked from the rain we escaped.
My Beretta weighs solid in my grip, its familiar grooves steadying my hand, while my knuckles throb, bruised and crusted with blood from last night’s brawl at the mill, where I hauled Isolde through a storm of bullets and muck to reach this shelter.
She sleeps now, curled tight on a blanket in the corner, her auburn braid a tangled mess, her coat draped over her like armor.
Her chest rises slowly and evenly as I watch her, gray eyes locked on her form, a fierce ache gripping my ribs.
Last night was a fucking mess—her text hit me like a punch, and I floored it, rain blinding me, only to find her cornered, hunted by her own brother’s men.
Leonardo branded her a traitor, slapped a twenty-million bounty on her head—dead or alive—and her father let it happen, cast her out like trash.
I got her out—bullets flying, blood on my hands, her grip fierce in mine—and now here we are, hiding, breathing, alive for the moment.
But it’s not over; it’s just starting. The war’s erupted—full-scale, no holding back—and blood’s already soaking the streets, ours and theirs, a tide I can’t stop but have to ride.
I rake a hand through my damp hair, the black strands sticking to my fingers, and step closer to her, crouching low, the floor creaking under my weight.
She’s a mess—rain-streaked, mud on her boots—but she’s gorgeous, fierce, mine.
That kiss at the safe house yesterday—soft, a promise—sealed it; she chose me over her family, over everything, and I chose her back, defying my father’s order to kill her.
Emilio’s voice snarls in my skull—“She’s your weakness, Azrael—end her or you’re nothing”—but it’s ash now, burned out by her, by us.
I’d burn the world for her, and that’s the truth clawing at me as I watch her sleep, her lips parted, breath fogging in the chill.
The door bangs open, wind gusting in, and I’m up—gun raised, finger on the trigger—until I see Cassian, my right-hand man, stepping through, his dark hair slick with fog, hazel eyes sharp and hard.
He’s in a leather coat, pistol at his hip, blood smeared on his sleeve—not his, someone else’s—and he shuts the door fast, leaning against it, breath heaving like he’s run miles.
“Fuck’s sake, Azrael,” he says, voice low, rough over the distant thunder, “you’re a hard bastard to track. ”
“Cass,” I say, lowering the gun but not holstering it, standing between him and Isolde, my stance wide, protective. “What’s the word? You look like hell—war hit already?”
“Hit?” He laughs—short, bitter—rubbing his face, smearing the blood into a faint streak.
“It’s a fucking slaughter. D’Angelos torched our Palermo warehouse—three men dead, ammo gone.
We hit back—took out one of their safehouses near Naples, five down, blood everywhere.
It’s full-scale now—both sides bleeding, no quarter.
Your father’s raging, Emilio’s calling you a ghost—says you’ve gone soft, hiding with her.
” He nods at Isolde, still asleep, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of doubt I don’t miss.
“Let him rage,” I growl, stepping closer, the cold seeping through my boots, fog curling in tendrils around us.
“She’s not a weakness—she’s why I’m still in this.
Leonardo’s got a bounty on her—twenty million—and her father’s cut her loose.
We’re not hiding; we’re planning—Salucci’s meet’s today, and we’re ending him. ”
Cassian’s jaw tightens, his hand flexing near his gun, and he steps forward, voice dropping lower, sharp.
“Salucci’s a ghost—slippery fuck’s got men crawling everywhere, stirring this shit.
But her—” He jerks his chin at Isolde, eyes hard.
“She’s a liability, Azrael. You’re dodging bullets for her, risking us all.
Emilio’s not wrong—she’s a crack in you, and cracks get you killed. ”
I bristle, heat flaring in my chest, and close the gap, towering over him, my gun still in hand, barrel pointed down but close enough to make a point.
“Watch your fucking mouth, Cass. She’s not a crack—she’s steel, tougher than half our crew.
She chose me over her blood—saved my ass from that ambush, pulled me out of traps.
We’re in this together, and if you can’t handle that, walk. ”
He doesn’t flinch—just stares, hazel eyes boring into mine, weighing me, and I see it: loyalty warring with doubt, years of trust straining under this choice I’ve made.
“I’m not walking,” he says finally, voice low, stepping back, hands raised slightly.
“You’re my brother—saved my ass too many times—but I’m warning you: she’s a target now, and you’re tied to her.
This war’s gonna break you if you don’t cut loose—she’s a weakness you can’t afford. ”
I lower the gun, slow, the cold biting deeper as his words sink in—a knife twisting in my gut, sharp and real.
“She’s not a weakness,” I say, quieter, turning to glance at her, still asleep, oblivious to the storm brewing here.
“She’s why I’m fighting—not just Salucci, but all of it.
Emilio wants her dead, Leonardo’s hunting her—I’m not abandoning her, Cass. Not now, not ever.”
He sighs, rubbing his neck, the fog thickening outside, muffling the thunder’s growl. “Then you’re choosing—her or everything else. War’s here, Azrael—blood’s on both sides, and it’s only getting worse. You’re gonna have to pick: let her go or burn it all down for her.”
“Burn it,” I say, voice hard, meeting his gaze, no hesitation, the choice clawing out of me like a beast breaking free. “If it’s her or the world, I’ll torch every fucking thing—Emilio, the Varelas, all of it. She’s mine, Cass—I’m not letting her go.”
He stares, jaw working, then nods—slow, reluctant, a flicker of respect cutting through the doubt.
“Your call, boss. Just know what it costs—war’s breaking us, and you’re in the middle with her.
I’ve got your back—always will—but this…
” He trails off, shaking his head, stepping toward the door.
“Got intel—Salucci’s meet’s shifted, outskirts near Ostia, three hours.
I’ll scout, meet you there. Stay sharp.”
“Always,” I say, watching him go, the door banging shut, fog swallowing his shadow as he disappears into the cold dawn.
I turn back to Isolde, crouching beside her, the floor creaking under me, my hand caressing her cheek—soft, warm despite the chill.
Her eyes flutter open, green and sharp, locking on mine, and I see it—trust, fire, everything I’m fighting for.
“Azrael?” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep, sitting up, the blanket slipping to her lap. “What’s wrong?”
“War’s here,” I say, low, steady, my hand sliding to her neck, thumb tracing her pulse—a lifeline in this shitstorm. “Blood’s spilling—both sides. Cassian’s warning me—you’re a target, a weakness. But I’m not letting you go, Isolde—not for them, not for anything.”
***
Late afternoon bleeds into dusk over the outskirts near Ostia, rain falling steady, soaking the cracked asphalt and turning the dirt to mud under my boots.
Distant explosions rumbling like thunder—war’s heartbeat, pounding closer every minute.
I crouch behind a rusted shipping container, Beretta in hand, the cold steel slick with rain, my black jacket heavy and dripping as I scan the horizon.
Isolde’s beside me, her gun raised, green eyes sharp through the downpour, auburn braid plastered to her neck, her coat smeared with mud from our trek here after Cassian’s intel.
Salucci’s meet’s ahead—a rundown warehouse, floodlights flickering, shadows moving inside—and it’s our shot to end him, to cut the head off this snake driving our families to slaughter each other.
The ride from the safe house was quiet—tense, her hand gripping mine on the gearshift, the rain blurring the windshield as I pushed the car hard through backroads, dodging patrols, eyes peeled for Leonardo’s bounty hunters or Salucci’s goons.
She didn’t flinch—didn’t waver—just nodded when I told her Cassian’s warning, her voice low, steady: “I’m not your weakness—I’m your strength.
We do this together.” It’s burned into me now, her beside me, rain-soaked and fierce, and I know—war’s breaking everything, but she’s the one thing I won’t let it shatter.
“Three guards, north entrance,” she whispers, peering through the rain, her breath fogging in the chill, gun steady in her grip. “Two more east—Salucci’s inside, I’d bet. You see Cassian?”
“Not yet,” I mutter, squinting through the downpour, the warehouse’s outline hazy, floodlights cutting jagged beams through the fog. “He’s scouting—should be west side by now. We move when he signals—hit fast, get Salucci, get out.”
She nods, shifting closer, her shoulder grazing mine, a flicker of warmth against the cold seeping through my bones. “Leo’s men—or Father’s—could be out there too. That bounty’s got every bastard with a gun looking for me.”
“Let ’em come,” I growl, voice low, fierce, glancing at her—rain streaking her face, eyes blazing, a warrior carved from the storm. “They touch you, they’re dead—every fucking one. You’re mine, Isolde—I’m not losing you to this war.”
Her lips twitch—a faint, fierce smile—and she grips my arm, quick, steadying. “Same—together, Azrael. No turning back.”
A flare cuts the dusk—red, sharp, west side—Cassian’s signal, and I’m up, gun raised, rain stinging my eyes as I nod at her.
“Now—north entrance, take the guards, I’ll cover.
” We move—fast, low—boots splashing through puddles, mud sucking at my soles, the warehouse looming closer, its rusted walls streaked with wet.
Gunfire erupts—sharp cracks splitting the rain—and I see them, three shadows at the door, rifles swinging.
I fire—two quick shots, head and chest, one drops with a wet thud, blood blooming dark in the mud—while Isolde nails the second, a clean shot through the throat, his gargle lost in the storm.
The third swings, but I’m on him—tackling hard, knee slamming his gut, gun to his temple, a single shot splattering red and gray across the asphalt.
“Clear,” I pant, standing, wiping rain and blood from my face as Isolde moves up, gun sweeping the entrance, her breath heaving but steady.
We slip inside—dark, cavernous, the air thick with rust and oil, crates stacked high, shadows flickering under stuttering lights.
Voices echo—low, tense—and I spot Cassian across the floor, crouched behind a barrel, hazel eyes sharp, waving us in.
“Salucci’s back room—five men, armed heavy,” he whispers as we join him, rain dripping from us, pooling on the concrete. “War’s hit hard—D’Angelos took our Sicily port last hour, ten dead. Emilio’s pulling crews, says you’re a traitor too—bounty’s on you now, Azrael, fifteen million.”
My gut twists—Emilio’s branded me too, turned me into prey beside her—and I laugh, low, bitter, gripping my gun tighter. “Fucking family—let him try. Salucci first—then we deal with the bastards.”
Cassian’s eyes flick to Isolde, narrowing, doubt flashing again, and he leans in, voice low, sharp.
“She’s why, Azrael—bounty’s doubled with her here.
War’s breaking us—blood’s everywhere—and you’re choosing her over it all.
You can still walk—leave her, save yourself, save us.
She’s a weakness you can’t fucking afford. ”
I grab his collar, yanking him close—rain-soaked, face to face—my voice a growl, low and lethal.
“Say that again, Cass—call her a weakness one more time, and I’ll put you down myself.
She’s why I’m here—why I’m fighting, not just surviving.
Emilio’s bounty, Leonardo’s—they’re noise.
She’s mine—burn the world or bury me, I’m not abandoning her. ”
He stares, jaw tight, then pulls free, stepping back, hands raised slightly, a grudging nod cutting through the tension. “Your choice—hope it’s worth it. Salucci’s the play—let’s move.”
Isolde’s hand brushes mine—quick, fierce, her eyes meeting mine, green and unyielding—and I nod, the choice slamming home, a weight I’ll carry to the end.
“Together,” she murmurs, gun raised, and I feel it—her beside me, war erupting, blood on both sides, and I’m choosing her, burning everything for her, no turning back.
We advance—low, fast—crates looming like walls, rain drumming the roof, thunder shaking the air as gunfire explodes ahead—Salucci’s men, ours clashing, the breaking point of this war crashing down around us.
I fire—steady, lethal—blood splattering, bodies dropping, Isolde at my side, Cassian flanking, and I know: it’s her or the world, and I’ve made my pick, consequences be damned.