Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
ENZO
I mentally grapple with the question: How many can I actually take on at once?
Half a dozen? Maybe.
A dozen if I truly put everything I have into it.
This isn’t bravado talking. It’s my inner predator—the beast—the one that’s been unleashed before and will come out again, without hesitation.
Growing impatient, I repeat, “How many?”
We have one shot at this—a single chance to storm the warehouse, annihilate every one of Andre’s henchmen, and free hundreds of captive women. Simple.
Easy fucking peasy.
And that’s not just the two bags of C4 at my feet talking; it’s me betting everything on a team whose skill, brutality, and thirst for blood are unmatched in every way—including my own brother. The knot in my gut twists that much more thinking of Dante by my side.
I know this won’t be a clean getaway. It’ll be chaos. Full- blown Armageddon times ten. And with Dante here, if things go south, our family risks losing not one but two brothers.
We’ll be battling our way out to the bitter end, which is why I need the numbers.
Ryder’s voice crackles through my earpiece, husky and certain. “Boss, I count a dozen.”
“Is that because that’s as high as you can count?” Blaze fires back, sarcasm evident.
“Technically, I can count to twenty-one if I use my dick,” Ryder responds, without missing a beat.
Bruno jumps in, amused. “At least it’s good for something. More like twenty and a half.”
Ryder refocuses, the mission at the forefront. “Again, I count twelve. But I’d bet my house, dog, and left ball we’re looking at twice that many at least.”
“No one wants your left ball,” Diaz replies dryly, adding, “Least of all, your wife.” We all chuckle, and part of me is vindicated.
The guys never wanted Diaz here. Not because they doubt her abilities. Badass Diaz is more than capable. And we needed a pilot. But they all worried it would hit too close to home.
Her release from the hospital was months ago, not years. Rushing from one brutal attack into the arms of battle? No one was sure she was ready.
No one but me.
When she looked at me with those ice-cold eyes and threatened to throw a Molotov cocktail at my onyx black Aston Martin if I even dreamed of stepping foot on the jet without her, it was clear she was ready.
And how could I say no? I just got that car .
Besides, I owe her—a debt not many can claim. It was Diaz who uncovered where Kennedy’s kidnappers had taken her. Without her sharp instincts and relentless drive, who knows what might have happened.
We’re more than a team. We’re family. Most of us have known each other since grade school, and three tours in the sandbox only solidified the bond my men have. You couldn’t separate us if you tried.
Some say trust is earned. In our world, real trust is forged through blood, sweat, and more near-death experiences than even Ryder can count.
These men would take a bullet for each other in a New York second. Giving each other shit is just our love language. The way Dante and I crucify each other to our faces while having each other’s backs.
Every fucking time.
Still, even I know the risks of having my brother here. It’s a double-edged sword. Constant fear churns in my gut like acid, a relentless reminder that our lives are always at risk.
Our father’s disappearance taught me that much.
I hate it.
Hate wondering which of us will fall first: one of them or me.
Hate the way my chest tightens at the thought of staying away because it keeps them safe. Out of all of us, I’ve poked the biggest bears and have the largest targets on my back as a result.
But when everything’s on the line, and the possibility of chopping the entry point to Uncle Andre’s most sadistic operation at the knees, there’s no one else I’d trust more than my brothers .
I cover Dante as he peers through a rear-facing window. We’ve had people scouting the area for twenty-four hours—cameras, mics, infrared sensors. But nothing beats firsthand surveillance.
That’s how we knew the shipment was happening tonight. Two guys outside, smoking a joint, while one idiot brags to the other and calls dibs on the youngest of the incoming victims.
His intention is to break her, with everyone watching, by forcing her to count her toes while he shoves his dick up her ass.
My intention is to rid him of that dick permanently.
My men also heard that J . would be doing the delivery himself. Which means Jimmy Luciano’s day of reckoning is today.
Do I trust my men to execute this mission with flawless precision and not fuck it all up to hell and back again?
With my life.
Do I want to be the one who demolishes the apex of my uncle’s operation and be the last person Jimmy Luciano ever sees before I pour battery acid on his eyes?
So badly I can taste it.
Luciano somehow backed Kennedy into a corner, orchestrating some twisted scheme for my uncle that forced her to swallow his debt whole. A setup designed to make her choke on it, and I need to know why.
But that’s not why his death will be epic.
The man will beg for death for the years of torment he carved into her beautiful body. And trust me, skinning him alive will be the highlight of my year.
So much so that, even though all I want is to tie Bella to the headboard and let my body crash into hers like a wrecking ball, I need to be here.
To do this.
For her .
My phone buzzes again. It’s been doing that on and off for the past hour whenever a movement sets it off.
It’s clear that my Bella can’t sleep, tossing and turning restlessly, as if her very existence in my world is agony.
Maybe things would be better if I let her go. And I’m not just saying that because, once again, my prick of an uncle has sent me another anonymous text with a single number on it:
3
It’s his way of reminding me I have three days left with her. What he can’t get through that useless brain of his is that it’s over with Kennedy when I say it’s over.
But, fuck , what am I doing?
I mean, I know that having a camera on her is a gross violation of privacy—and felony voyeurism in some states. Though technically, we are in Italy.
And I’m not gonna lie. Seeing her on the screen soothes me in a way that a dozen armed guards and a twelve-foot-perimeter wall around the property never will.
Sure, from the outside, it seems like Kennedy is safe, but I need the extra assurance. Besides, nothing says I care better than round the clock surveillance.
While Dante maneuvers to another wall, when my phone buzzes again, I steal a glance at the screen .
My eyes widen, stunned, as I watch Kennedy beat the living shit out of my pillow like it owes her money.
What the actual fuck?
A second later, she finally calms down, and I try not to take it personally.
Who knows? Maybe I’m moving too fast for my sweet Bella . But bringing her here was...unavoidable. Andre’s vultures are circling, and I’m not ready to toss her to the curb like a broken toy.
Not yet.
Her only way out is through me and it’s better to keep her close. If dancing on the edge of a razor blade makes her a little unsettled, so be it.
When the notification buzzes again, I ignore it. It’s time to tuck Kennedy back on her pedestal in the recesses of my mind while I focus on work.
Dante circles back, and I’ve gotten used to the fact that he never speaks when he’s on direct surveillance—a job tailor-made for a guy whose superpower is sniffing out the truth.
Watching him in action, I’m convinced he was the best peeping tom in a past life.
It’s also the only time he actually shuts up, so I breathe through it and savor the peace.
When he’s this deep in enemy territory, even a whisper could get him shot. Instead of uttering a word, he holds up three fingers high in the air for all of us to see.
Fuck . I blow out a breath. “Looks like Ryder just lost his left testicle. We’re not looking at twice as many men, but three times. ”
“I said at least,” Ryder snaps back, then sighs. “What’s the call, boss? Cut bait and bail, or storm in like Vikings?”
“When we’re outmanned, outgunned, and out of our fucking minds, there’s only one answer,” I reply.
“Viking shit!” they all roar in unison, their voices echoing through my earpiece. The high-pitched noise is so intense, I’m pretty sure my eardrum has exploded. Leaving me high on adrenaline and completely deaf in my left ear.
I adjust my bluetooth, and Bruno’s voice cuts through the chaos, clear and urgent. “Incoming. A heavy. Eighteen-wheeler. Two of them.”
He didn’t even need to say a word. The cries of women reach us, sharp and desperate. The sound is a cattle prod to my rage.
“Calm, boy. Ye must stay calm.”
Oh, good. The Scotsman is back with his customary pep talk.
The sad truth is, I don’t even want him gone. But how about a little less zen and a lot more blinding, psychotic fury, okay?
“Ready to storm in, boss?” Ryder’s voice crackles through the earpiece, his impatience evident even in the static.
Then it hits me—the warning from the Scotsman. The trucks. The reason we can hear the women.
I rush a command. “Stand Down.” From the corner of my eye, I catch Dante throwing his hands up, his expression screaming that I’ve lost my mind.
Calmly, I explain. “Those trucks are surrounded by a thin sheet of metal. If we charge in, guns blazing like a bunch of trigger- happy cowboys, stray bullets will rip through those trucks like pins through a voodoo doll.”
Tension racks through Blaze’s words, urgent and raw. “We can’t wait for them to fall asleep because, one, they never do, and two, we’d be standing by, watching women get raped and tortured for hours. No one wants that. Least of all you, boss.”
It only takes a heartbeat for me to decide when I see Jimmy Luciano directing the trucks toward a second warehouse. My gaze drops to my feet, where two bags brim with enough plastique to tunnel to the center of the Earth.
“Two of you, take the trucks. Now. You’ve got a minute to kill the drivers and get those trucks out of here. Dante and I will stay back with the rest, draw their fire, and turn Andre’s little hideaway into a three-mile dumpster fire.”
“But sir?—”
“I said go!”
We move with the deadly grace of seasoned operatives—a necessity when you’re carrying bags of volatile explosives, where one wrong move could end us all.
Sixty seconds. That’s all it takes for us to lace their perimeter with plastique like it’s lethal Christmas garland. Then, all hell breaks loose. A series of explosions go off, lighting up the night with deafening roars and blinding flashes.
My men have managed to do as I commanded, with the trucks down the road and far enough to be safe—at least, that’s the hope.
An amateur might think these explosives could finish the job.
But experience has taught us that all the C-4 and Molotov cocktails in the world never kill all the roaches. There’s always a few that scuttle away, hiding in the shadows, waiting to crawl back out and wreak havoc at the worst possible time.
Any second now, those idiots will start shooting blindly into the darkness, riddling the air with semi-automatic fire. Just as we planned, each of us carves out our territory, picking off Andre’s men one by one as we revel in the bloodbath as if we’re vampires.
In the midst of the chaos, I spot him—Jimmy Luciano. Panic-stricken, stumbling over his own feet, running for his miserable life.
My vision narrows, every ounce of my focus locking onto him. In that moment, nothing else matters.
In three giant leaps, I’ve got him by the collar. “If you’re alive, Jimmy, then Kennedy has no debt,” I spit, dragging him through the blaze, ready to present him like a pig on a spit to Bella .
His voice is garbled, probably because I’ve got him by the neck. “You’re making a mistake,” he chokes out. They all say that. But it’s the next words that make me pause. “I don’t know Jimmy.”
I turn, and Luciano’s face is gone, replaced by an equally vile shell of a human, but not him. Panic sets in, twisting my gut. “Please,” he begs, desperation dripping from his voice. “Let me go, and I’ll give you anything you want. You like girls? I’ve got a stash of them.”
My blood runs cold as I look up at the building, flames licking at its walls. “Where?” I demand, my voice shaking with urgency.
“There’s a locker inside,” he stammers, eyes wide with fear.
“On it!” Dante’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and unwavering. I know he means it—he’ll tear this place apart to save them or die trying. And that’s exactly what settles in my gut like a lump of lead.
The warehouse is massive, engulfed in flames. Goddamnit, he needs a direction. I tighten my grip on the man’s throat, his eyes bulging as I snarl, “Where’s the locker?”
He gasps, his face turning a sickly shade of purple. “North corner,” he wheezes, his voice a desperate rasp.
“Who else do you have in there?” When his eyes glaze over, I knock his head against a rock to jog his memory. “Answer me.”
He sucks in a breath. “No. I hid them for me.”
That’s when Dante’s voice crackles through the earpiece, choked with smoke. “I’ve got them,” he coughs, the sound harsh and raw.
“And they’re alive?” I ask, my heart pounding hard in my chest.
“Yes,” he gasps out between coughs, and relief floods me. Losing my brother is not an option. Losing any of them would destroy me.
“Two girls,” Dante continues, his voice ragged. “Kept in a fucking gym locker.”
The guy who’s not Jimmy decides he’s got more to say. “You’ll like them,” he sneers, as if he and I live in the same twisted universe. “Come on, man. You have them. Give them a little bread and water, and they’ll do anything you want. You can train them to drop to their knees and suck your dick on command.”
At this point, reality blurs. Jimmy. Not Jimmy. It doesn’t matter.
I slam his head against a rock so hard, his face morphs into a grotesque mask of blood and bone. It’s just like Dante said. He could be anyone.
I don’t mean to kill him, but the rage surges unbridled, and knocking his skull around until the bones rattle like pinballs inside seems almost instinctive now.
I know there’s a fine line between justice and vengeance. Where it is, I have no idea. All I know is in this moment, brutality feels fucking great.
“Time to go, boy ,” The Scottish voice insists.
But I don’t hear him. Rage pounds in my ears, a deafening roar that drowns out all reason. It’s all too easy to lose myself in it, to surrender to the dark urges my brothers, Sin, and a battalion of corporate attorneys insist I keep chained away.
Then, a sound slices through the chaos.
It’s like a pin dropping in a cathedral, echoing through the silence, sharp and clean.
When the whiz snaps past my ear, no pain registers. It’s not until I feel warm liquid trickling down my hand that I realize what’s happened.
Not even the ghost of a Scotsman can save me now.
Fuck .
I’ve been shot.