Chapter 15
LUCA
Iwake up in blood.
My own blood, pooling on the hardwood floor of my destroyed kitchen. My head is screaming, vision blurred at the edges. Someone hit me hard enough to crack my skull. I can feel the wet heat running down the back of my neck, soaking into my collar.
I don't care.
I push myself up, the room spinning. Glass crunches under my palms. The penthouse reeks of smoke, explosives and blood.
They took Francesca.
I stagger to my feet, reach for my phone. My hands are steady even though my head feels like it's splitting open. Crimson drips from my temple onto the screen as I pull up my contacts. I start making calls.
The first one is to Sal. He answers on the second ring.
"Boss?"
"Bratva took her. I need everyone. Now."
"How many?"
"Everyone." I wipe my eyes clear. "I need you to find her. Call every contact we have. Check with our guys in Brighton Beach. Someone saw something. Black vans, multiple occupants, anything leaving Tribeca in the last hour."
"On it. You need me to call Don Marco?"
"Yeah." I look at the bodies on my floor.
Several of them lie in pools of spreading crimson.
I killed them before the others swarmed me.
It wasn't enough. "Tell him what happened.
Tell him I'm asking for his help—NYPD contacts, traffic cams, whatever he can give me.
And tell him I need to go get her back."
There's a pause. "Boss, if they took her to Brighton Beach and you go in there—"
"I know." My voice is flat. "But I'm going anyway. Make the call."
I hang up.
I walk to my bedroom. The pain in my head is background noise. Everything is background noise except the singular focus of getting her back.
They took what's mine.
They're all dead. Every single one of them.
I strip off my blood-soaked shirt and pull on tactical gear from my closet. Black cargo pants, black long-sleeve shirt, boots. I strap on my shoulder holster, check my Glock. Fully loaded. I grab the spare magazines, a backup piece for my ankle, and the knife I keep in a sheath at my lower back.
My phone buzzes. A text from Sal with an address. A warehouse in Brighton Beach, industrial district near the water. A grainy still image attached—black van, partial plate visible.
Our guy at the 60th saw this on the traffic cam. Heading south on Ocean Parkway, timestamp shows it was recent. One of our people in Brighton Beach just called—Morozov's been moving men to this address. Industrial warehouse. Looks like the place.
I answer Sal with one word:
Go.
Then I grab my go-bag from the closet. Medical supplies, cash, fake IDs, burner phones. Everything I need if this goes sideways. I'm walking out of my bedroom when my phone rings again.
Don Marco.
I consider not answering. But Marco didn't build his empire by being ignored, and I need him to know what's coming.
"Uncle."
"Salvatore called me." His voice is cold, controlled. The voice he uses when he's furious but won't show it. "He says you're going into Brighton Beach."
"Yes."
"That's Bratva territory, Luca. You go in there with guns blazing, you're declaring war. Not just on them. On everyone who has agreements with them. The Commission will get involved."
"I don't care about the Commission."
"You should. They'll demand your head for breaking the peace."
"They can try to take it." I walk to the elevator, press the button. The doors open and I step inside, ignoring the scorch marks on the walls. "The Bratva took something of mine. I'm taking it back."
"The woman." It's not a question. "You're starting a war over a woman. I warned you about this." There’s a pause before Don Marco's voice comes back, quieter. More dangerous. "You're willing to burn everything for her."
"Yes." The elevator descends, floor numbers ticking down. "She's mine. They touched what's mine. There's only one response to that."
"Luca, listen to me. You go in there and the Bratva will retaliate against all of us. Not just you. The whole family. Every soldier, every operation. This isn't just about you anymore."
"I know."
"And you're doing it anyway."
"Yes."
Another pause. I can hear him breathing on the other end, can picture him in his office at the social club, weighing options, calculating costs.
"How many men do you need?" he asks finally.
"Our best soldiers. As many as you can spare."
"You'll have them. But Luca, when this is over, you and I are going to have a conversation about what you've cost us."
"I'll be there. After I get her back."
I hang up as the elevator reaches the ground floor.
Sal is waiting outside with a black SUV, engine running. He takes one look at my head and tosses me a towel.
"You're still bleeding."
I press the towel to my skull, feel the wet warmth soak through. Probably a concussion. Maybe worse. "Building layout?"
"Joey owes me a favor from when we handled that union thing.
His cousin works for the city—building inspections.
He pulled the records." Sal hands me his phone showing a scanned blueprint.
"A single story warehouse, concrete construction, metal roof.
Two entrances—front and loading dock in back.
Both with reinforced steel doors. Skylights on the roof, no ground-level windows. "
"Exits?"
"The same two doors. The loading dock has an exterior pad lock, probably chained from the inside too."
"Defenses?"
"Unknown. But if they're smart, they've got lookouts and firing positions set up inside."
I study the blueprint, already planning the assault. Overwhelming force. No subtlety. I'm walking through the front door and killing everyone between me and Francesca.
"How many Bratva you think are in there?" Sal asks.
"Doesn't matter."
He glances at me. "Boss, if they've got the numbers—"
"Doesn't matter." I look at him and let him see what's in my eyes. "I'm walking out of there with her. Anyone who tries to stop me dies. That's not a plan. That's a fact."
Sal nods and focuses on driving.
We cross the bridge in silence. My phone buzzes with an update from one of our guys watching the warehouse. Confirms movement inside. Lots of it. This is the place.
We meet the others in an abandoned lot a few blocks from the warehouse. Don Marco's best soldiers, heavily armed, faces hard with experience. I don't waste time with names or introductions.
I lay out the plan in seconds. "Front door breach. Flashbangs first. We go in fast, spread out, shoot anything that moves. I'm going straight to the center for Francesca. You clear the perimeter and cover my exit. Questions?"
No one asks any. They know how this works.
"Rocco, how long to breach the door?"
One of the men—older, scarred face—nods. "Less than a minute to set the charge."
"Do it. Everyone else, stacked and ready. You," I point to the one with the sniper rifle, "find a perch. Anyone comes out that back door, you drop them."
"Got it, boss."
We move in formation, weapons up, using the surrounding buildings for cover. The warehouse squats in the middle of the industrial block, ugly gray concrete with a flat roof and rusted metal siding. No cars outside. No visible guards.
They're all inside, waiting.
Rocco runs to the door with the breaching charge while we cover him. He works fast, placing the C4, running the det cord back to us. We stack up on either side of the entrance. I'll be first through. Sal behind me, the others fanning out after.
Rocco looks at me. I nod.
He triggers the charge.
The explosion is deafening. The door disintegrates, blown inward in a spray of metal and concrete. Before the debris settles, I'm moving.
Flashbangs go in first, arcing through the smoke. Then they detonate and the world goes white.
I'm through the door before the echo fades.
The warehouse interior matches the blueprint. Open space, concrete floor, metal rafters. And men. So many men. Bratva soldiers, armed, turning toward us with weapons raised.
I start shooting.
The first man catches rounds center mass. He goes down. The second takes a headshot, his skull snapping back in a spray of red. I'm moving between them, gun up, finding targets. Third man raises a rifle and I put rounds in his chest before he can fire.
Behind me, my team is spreading out, engaging targets. The sound is overwhelming. Gunfire echoing off concrete, shouting in Russian, the wet smack of bullets hitting flesh.
I don't stop moving. I head straight for the center of the warehouse. A man steps into my path and I shoot him in the face. Another comes from my left and I drop him center mass.
Then I see her.
Center of the warehouse, tied to a chair, surrounded by chaos. She's alive. Her face is bruised, her wrists bloody from the zip ties, but she's alive.
A Bratva soldier stands next to her chair, gun pointed at her head.
I stop moving. Raise my weapon. Line up the shot.
He's shouting something in Russian, using her as a shield. His hand is shaking. He's scared.
He should be.
I fire.
The round takes him in the throat. He drops, gurgling, the gun clattering to the floor. I'm already moving again, closing the distance to her.
"Luca!" Her voice is raw, desperate.
"I've got you." I pull my knife from its sheath, cut through the zip ties. Her wrists are torn, bleeding. I'll kill them again for that. "Can you stand?"
"I think so." She tries to get up but her legs give out. I catch her, pull her against my chest.
"I've got you," I say again. "You're safe."
Behind us, the gunfire is dying down. My team is winning. Bodies everywhere, the smell of cordite thick in the air.
Then I hear it. Movement to my right.
I turn, pushing Francesca behind me.
A man steps out from behind a stack of crates. Older, well-dressed, a gun in his hand. Vlad Orlov. The bastard who took her. The one who planned all of this.
"L'Ombra," he says, smiling. "You came for her. Just as I knew you would."
"And now you die for taking her."
"Perhaps." He raises his gun. "But I take you with me. Fair trade."
I start to move but he's already firing.