CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
"It is a coalition," Bernardo said, his face grim as he projected a series of surveillance photos onto the wall monitor.
The images showed men in tailored Italian suits meeting with heavily scarred, cold-eyed men on the docks of Genoa.
"The intelligence confirms it. A splinter cell of the Northern Italian factions has joined forces with elements of the Russian Bratva, specifically an offshoot operating out of Odessa. "
Sandro stared at the screen, the tactical geometry locking into place in his mind. "The Russians have the hardware and the eastern borders. The Italians have the capital and the European logistics."
"Exactly," Matteo said, stepping forward.
"It is a highly volatile alliance. We cannot confirm definitively if this specific coalition is the one that funded the strike on the Kazans, but the timeline matches perfectly.
They began pooling their resources right around the time Emir Kazan was assassinated.
The possibility that they are connected cannot be ignored. "
Before Sandro could issue the order to dig deeper, the doors of the study burst open. Nico, one of the senior enforcers, stepped inside, his face slick with rain, breathing heavily.
"Boss," Nico barked, the urgency in his voice instantly shifting the temperature in the room. "We have a breach. Multiple shipments at the southern commercial docks have just been hit. Heavily armed teams. They are burning the cargo and pinning down our men."
Sandro’s demeanor snapped from an investigative tactician to the lethal authority of the Don. "How many men?"
"Two dozen, at least. Professional operators, not street thugs."
"Get the cars ready," Sandro ordered, already moving toward the biometric safe built into the cedar paneling. He punched in his code, retrieving his shoulder holster and a suppressed pistol. "Matteo, mobilize the strike teams. We leave in two minutes."
As Sandro shrugged into his dark overcoat, adjusting the leather straps of his holster, the study door opened again. Zina stepped inside.
She had shed the elegant silk dress she wore at dinner.
Instead, she was dressed in black tactical trousers, a tight, dark long-sleeved shirt, and combat boots.
Her dark hair was pulled back into a braid.
Her eyes were cold, focused, and completely devoid of the soft, bewildered woman from the sunroom.
"I heard the radio chatter in the hallway," Zina said, her voice a flat, unyielding command. "I am coming with you."
Sandro froze. The adrenaline pumping through his veins slammed into a brick wall of pure terror.
"No," Sandro said, his voice dropping into a harsh, vibrating register. "Absolutely not."
"Sandro, they are hitting your logistics," Zina argued, stepping further into the room, her posture radiating lethal capability. "If this is the Bratva coalition, they are heavily armed and highly trained. You need someone watching your blind spots. I have your back. I am coming."
Sandro didn't argue the logistics. He didn't order her to stay as the Don. Instead, in front of Matteo, Bernardo, and Nico, the most feared man in Milan did something unprecedented.
He crossed the room in three strides, closed the distance between them, and practically dropped to his knees. He sank down until he was at eye level with her, his large hands reaching out to grip her forearms with a desperate, crushing intensity.
"Zina, please," Sandro begged, his voice fracturing, completely stripping away his pride and his armor. His green-grey eyes were wild with an agonizing, naked vulnerability. "Please. Look at me. I cannot take you into a firefight."
Zina tried to pull back, stunned by the sheer desperation radiating from him. "Sandro, I can handle myself—"
"I know you can!" Sandro interrupted, his hands tightening on her arms. "I know you are a weapon!
But I cannot handle it, Zina! If you are standing beside me in a combat zone, I will not be watching the enemy.
I will not be calculating the sightlines or commanding my men.
I will only be watching you. I will be paralyzed, waiting for a stray bullet to find you, and it will get us both killed. You are my only weak point. Please."
Zina stared down into his terrified eyes, her heart twisting violently in her chest. Every instinct drilled into her by Emir Kazan screamed that she should deploy, that she should protect the man she loved with violence.
But as she looked at Sandro, kneeling before her and pleading for her safety, she realized that joining him would not make him safer. It would only distract him.
"I am begging you," Sandro whispered, pressing his forehead against her stomach, a raw, shuddering breath escaping his lungs.
"Just stay here. Stay behind these walls.
I will go, I will handle the threat, and I will come back to you.
I swear on my life, Zina. I will come back. Just let me do my job."
Zina closed her eyes, fighting the frustrated tears burning behind her lashes. She hated it. She hated feeling sidelined while the man she loved walked into the fire. But she could not deny the truth in his words.
She reached down, her hands tangling in his dark hair, and gently forced him to look up at her. "If you do not come back to me, Alessandro, I will track your ghost to hell and kill you myself."
Sandro let out a breathless, relieved exhale, standing up to press a fierce, bruising kiss to her mouth. "I will be back before sunrise."
***
The southern docks were a chaotic nightmare of smoke, driving rain, and deafening gunfire. The air smelled of salt water, diesel fuel, and the sharp, metallic tang of cordite.
Sandro moved through the labyrinth of steel shipping containers with unnerving efficiency, his weapon raised, his face an emotionless mask.
Matteo flanked him on the right, laying down precise suppressing fire, while their enforcers systematically dismantled the strike team that had breached the perimeter.
The attackers were indeed highly trained—mercenaries who fought with disciplined, tactical aggression. But they had underestimated the crushing brutality of the Moretti syndicate defending its own territory.
"Left flank is collapsing!" Matteo roared over the sound of the rain, dropping an enemy combatant who tried to scale a rusted crane.
"Push them toward the water!" Sandro commanded, stepping out from behind a container to fire two controlled shots into a mercenary attempting to flank Nico’s position.
The firefight lasted for a brutal, relentless forty minutes before the remaining attackers finally broke, scrambling toward the dark waters of the harbor or surrendering to the advancing Moretti men.
The ringing silence that followed was broken only by the sound of the rain hitting the metal containers and the distant wail of sirens.
"Perimeter secure," Matteo breathed, lowering his smoking weapon and wiping a mixture of rain and dirt from his face. He turned to look at his Don. "Sandro, we need to—"
Matteo stopped.
Sandro was leaning heavily against a stack of wooden pallets, his face deathly pale beneath the amber glow of the harbor lights.
His overcoat was thrown open, and his left hand was pressed tightly against his side, just below his ribs.
Dark, thick blood was seeping rapidly through his fingers, soaking the crisp white fabric of his dress shirt.
"Boss!" Nico shouted, rushing forward.
Matteo was at Sandro’s side in an instant, grabbing his shoulder to keep him upright. "You’re hit. Damn it, Sandro, why didn't you say anything?"
Sandro groaned, his head falling back against the wood. The wound wasn't catastrophic—the bullet had passed cleanly through the muscular tissue of his obliques, missing the vital organs—but it burned with a fierce, agonizing heat.
However, as Matteo began barking orders for the medics, he noticed something incredibly strange about Sandro’s reaction. The Don of Milan wasn't wincing from the pain. He wasn't inquiring about the captured mercenaries or the state of the shipments.
Sandro was staring up at the rainy sky with an expression of dread.
"She is going to murder me," Sandro whispered, his voice laced with genuine panic.
Matteo paused, his hands slick with Sandro’s blood, and stared at his oldest friend. "What?"
"Zina," Sandro clarified, squeezing his eyes shut as Nico applied a pressure bandage to his side. "She is going to absolutely tear me apart, Matteo. I promised her. I looked her in the eye, I begged her to stay home, and I promised her I wouldn't get hurt. What the hell am I going to tell her?"
Matteo could not help it. Despite the gravity of the situation, despite standing in a blood-soaked harbor in the pouring rain, a loud, incredulous laugh punched its way out of the Underboss’s chest.
This was Alessandro Moretti. A man who commanded an army of killers, who routinely ordered executions, and who terrified half the criminal syndicates in Europe. And here he was, bleeding out on a wooden pallet, consumed by the prospect of being scolded by his girlfriend.
"You can tell her the bullet tripped and fell into you," Matteo suggested, a grin breaking across his face as he hauled Sandro up by his good arm. "But personally, I would rather face the Bratva than face a Kazan who thinks you broke a promise. Good luck, boss."
The underground medical suite of the Palazzo Moretti was a blindingly bright, sterile room that smelled sharply of iodine and rubbing alcohol.