Chapter 13 - Isolde
The warehouse interior presses in like a tomb—dark, cavernous, rain drumming the roof in a relentless roar that drowns out the distant thunder.
Night’s falling fast outside, the storm intensifying, wind howling through the broken windows, sending shards of glass skittering across the concrete floor.
I advance beside Azrael—low, fast—my boots splashing through shallow puddles, gun raised, the flickering lights overhead casting jagged shadows that dance across the towering crates like specters of the dead piling up in this war.
Cassian flanks us, his pistol steady, blood-streaked sleeve catching the dim glow, and the tension between us hums—a live wire stretched taut, ready to snap.
Gunfire explodes ahead—sharp, staccato bursts ripping through the storm’s din—and I duck behind a crate, wood splintering above my head as bullets chew into it, spraying dust and fragments into my hair.
Azrael’s beside me, firing back—steady, lethal—two shots cracking out, and I hear a scream, a wet thud as a body hits the floor, blood pooling dark and glistening in the faint light.
“Five left—back room,” he growls, voice rough over the chaos, rain dripping from his jaw, streaking his face with muddy trails.
I nod, peering around the crate—three shadows weaving through the stacks, rifles swinging, their shouts lost in the wind’s wail—and fire, my shot clipping one in the shoulder, spinning him down with a howl, red blooming across his chest as he crumples.
Cassian moves—fast, silent—flanking left, his gun barking twice, another shadow dropping, skull bursting in a spray of crimson and gray that splatters the crates, the stench of blood thickening the air.
“Three now—Salucci’s close,” he pants, crouching beside us, hazel eyes sharp but flickering with that same doubt I saw before, his gaze darting to me then back to Azrael.
“Keep moving,” Azrael snaps, grabbing my arm, pulling me forward—his grip fierce, protective—as we weave through the crates, the storm’s roar masking our steps, rain seeping through the roof in steady drips that puddle on the floor.
A shadow looms—big, fast—rifle raised, and I fire—center mass, blood erupting as he staggers, collapsing with a gurgle, his weapon clattering beside him.
Two left, and the back room’s ahead—a rusted metal door, light seeping through the cracks, voices rising—tense, barking orders—and I know Salucci’s there, the snake who’s turned our families into rabid dogs tearing at each other’s throats.
Azrael kicks the door—hard, metal screeching as it flies open—and we’re in, guns blazing.
The room’s a haze—smoke, blood, five men scrambling, rifles swinging, and I dive right, rolling behind a steel table as bullets ping off it, sparks flying, the acrid sting of gunpowder burning my nose.
Azrael’s left—firing steady, a shot taking one in the chest, blood spraying as he drops, clutching his guts—while Cassian flanks, his pistol cracking, another crumpling with a hole in his throat, red bubbling from his mouth.
I pop up—aiming fast—my shot catching a third in the leg, his scream cut short as Azrael finishes him, a bullet through the skull, brains splattering the wall in a wet arc.
Two left—one’s Salucci, I’d bet—tall, graying hair, cold blue eyes glinting as he ducks behind a desk, barking at the last man, a hulking bastard with a shotgun swinging my way.
I drop—rain-soaked floor cold against my chest—as the blast roars, pellets shredding the table’s edge, wood chips stinging my cheek.
Azrael snarls—“Stay down!”—and fires, the shotgunner staggering, blood blooming across his thigh, but he swings again, and I roll, firing back—two shots, chest and neck, his throat exploding in a red fountain as he collapses, shotgun clattering, blood pooling fast around him.
“Salucci!” Azrael roars, advancing, gun trained on the desk, and I’m up—flanking right—my heart pounding.
The desk shifts—Salucci bolts, a pistol in hand, firing wild—bullets zinging past my head, thudding into crates—and I dive, tackling him low, my shoulder slamming his gut, driving him to the concrete with a grunt.
He’s strong—thrashing, elbow catching my jaw, pain flaring sharp—but I’m faster, pinning his wrist, twisting until the gun drops, skittering across the floor.
“Fucking D’Angelo bitch,” he spits, voice cold, venomous, blue eyes blazing with hate as he bucks beneath me, his graying hair matted with sweat. “You and Varela—ruining everything—should’ve killed you both when I—”
Azrael’s boot slams his face—hard, a crack of bone, blood spraying from his nose—and Salucci howls, clutching his face, red streaming through his fingers.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Azrael growls, crouching, gun pressed to Salucci’s temple, his grip steady, rain dripping from his jaw, streaking the blood on his knuckles. “You’re done—war’s over, you bastard.”
I stand, panting, wiping rain and blood from my cheek, my gun trained on Salucci as Cassian steps up, his pistol lowered, eyes flicking between us—doubt still there, but muted, exhaustion carving lines into his face.
“He’s the head—cut it off, war slows,” I say, voice rough, steadying despite the ache in my jaw, the storm’s roar outside a relentless pulse matching my own.
“But Leonardo—Father—they won’t stop. Bounties are out—fifteen on him, twenty on me. They’re coming.”
Azrael’s eyes meet mine—gray, fierce, a storm of their own—and he nods slowly, resolute, the gun steady at Salucci’s head. “Then we burn it—end him, then run. Together.”
Cassian shifts, voice low, cutting through the rain’s din. “You’re choosing her—over everything. War’s breaking us—blood’s on both sides, more every hour. Emilio’s lost ten, D’Angelos more, and you’re in the middle with her. You can still walk, Azrael—leave her, save what’s left.”
I bristle—heat flaring, stepping closer—my voice sharp, venom dripping. “I’m not a fucking burden—I’m here, fighting, bleeding with you. Tell me to my face I’m his weakness, Cassian—say it, and see what happens.”
Azrael’s hand snaps up—grabbing Cassian’s shoulder, pulling him back—his growl fierce, protective. “She’s not a weakness—she’s why I’m still standing. You’ve got my back, Cass—always have—but this is my call. Her or the world—I’m burning it for her, and you either stand with us or step aside.”
Cassian stares—jaw tight, eyes searching—then exhales, a grudging nod breaking the tension, his voice low, worn. “With you—always. But it’s a fucking cost—hope you’re ready.”
“I am,” Azrael says, voice hard, turning back to Salucci, his gun pressing deeper, the man’s blood-streaked face twisting in pain and defiance. “This ends now.”
I nod—gun steady, rain soaking me through—the war’s breaking point crashing around us, blood on both sides pooling in the shadows, and Azrael’s choice—me over everything—anchors me in this carnage.
Salucci’s the spark, but Leonardo, Father—they’re the fire, and we’re caught in it, together, no turning back.
The rain intensifies, thunder rolling close, and I know—this is just the start, a betrayal sealed in bloodshed, and we’re fighting to survive it.