CHAPTER 14 THE RESCUE OPERATION #3
Dario knew it too. Dominic wouldn’t be alone. The flare fire outside had bought chaos, not isolation. Another few seconds, and this room would be swarmed.
Carmine’s voice crackled through the earpiece Dario had almost forgotten he was wearing. “Two more coming in hot from the east stairwell.” A pause. “And—shit. They’ve got a battering ram on the service door.”
Dominic’s smirk widened. “Hear that? You’re boxed in.”
Dario didn’t answer. He fired twice—not at Dominic, but at the overhead sprinkler line. Freezing water erupted from the ceiling, a sudden downpour dousing the fluorescent lights. Darkness swallowed the room, broken only by the erratic flicker of emergency exit signs.
Dominic swore, squeezing off a blind shot. The bullet punched into a crate somewhere to Dario’s left.
Tommy was already moving, half-crawling toward a stack of industrial shelving. “Ledger’s got offshore accounts,” he hissed. “Vincent’s laundering through—”
A second gunshot cut him off. Dominic had adjusted to the dark faster than Dario expected. The round grazed Tommy’s shoulder, spinning him into the shelving with a metallic clang.
Dario lunged, slamming his shoulder into Dominic’s ribs. They hit the concrete together, the Glock skittering away. Dominic drove an elbow into Dario’s kidney, but Dario twisted, locking a forearm under his chin.
The earpiece crackled again. “Brace,” Carmine warned.
The service door exploded inward.
Splintered wood and metal hinges rained down as three of Moretti’s crew stormed through, their silhouettes backlit by the flames outside. Dario rolled off Dominic, snatching up the fallen Glock just as the first enforcer leveled a shotgun.
Dario shot him through the throat.
The next two dove for cover, but Dominic was already scrambling toward them, his voice raw. “Drop him! Drop them both!”
Tommy yanked a fire extinguisher off the wall and hurled it into the cluster of enforcers. The canister detonated on impact, filling the air with choking white powder.
Dario grabbed Tommy by the collar and hauled him toward the shattered service door. “Move.”
Behind them, Dominic was screaming orders, but the fire and the chaos had done their job—no one was listening.
Carmine’s voice was the only clear thing left. “Alley’s clear for eight seconds. Don’t fucking waste them.”
Dario ran.
The service hallway reeked of burned wiring and Tommy's adrenaline sweat as Dario shoved him toward the emergency exit. Behind them, Marco and Carmine covered their retreat with precise gunfire—three shots each, controlled bursts that kept Dominic's enforcers pinned behind overturned tables.
"Window's ten seconds," Marco barked into his earpiece. "Move your ass, Vitale."
Dario didn't answer. He was calculating the angle of the fire escape, the patrol routes of Moretti's perimeter guards, the exact moment Vincent would realize this wasn't just another skirmish.
Tommy grabbed his arm. "The others—"
"Are handling their jobs." Dario didn't slow down. The kid's loyalty was going to get him ventilated before sunrise. "You handle yours."
A crash echoed from the main hall—Dominic's voice rising above the chaos. "That's my fucking uncle's warehouse! You torch it, you answer to—"
The rest was drowned out by Carmine's diversion charge detonating near the gas line. Dario didn't flinch at the blast wave. He'd known Carmine would pack just enough C4 to collapse the interior scaffolding without igniting the fuel depot. Precision mattered.
Marco caught up at the fire escape, his left sleeve dark with blood. "Vincent's calling a sit-down. Whole family."
Dario checked his watch. 3:17 AM. Far too early for formal retaliation unless Vincent had been waiting for an excuse. "Tell him I'm auditing the southside books."
"You're not." Marco blocked the ladder. "He knows you took Tommy. Knows you're undermining his position with Dominic's crew." His jaw worked like he was chewing glass. "You walk into that meeting, it's a bullet or a kneecap."
The fire escape shuddered underfoot as another explosion rocked the warehouse. Dario adjusted his cufflinks, buying half a second to weigh the cost. He could disappear. Should disappear.
Tommy's breath hitched beside him. The kid hadn't known this was the test.
Dario turned his wrist, revealing the half-healed scar from Vincent's last warning. "Carmine."
"Yeah, boss?"
"Burn the ledgers in my office safe." Dario stepped onto the ladder. "Marco—tell Vincent I'll be there."
Marco spat over the railing. "Fucking suicide."
"Probably." Dario didn't look back as he descended into the alley. Behind him, Tommy followed without hesitation, proving once again that loyalty was the sharpest blade—and Dario had just pointed it at his own throat.
The new detail: Dominic's enforcers all wore identical steel-toed boots, standard issue for Moretti warehouse crews. Easier to identify the bodies later.
The alley stank of piss and scorched concrete, the warehouse's flames casting jagged shadows across the dumpsters. Dario counted footsteps—six, maybe seven—before the first enforcer rounded the corner. Steel-toe boots scuffed asphalt in perfect unison.
Tommy pressed against the brick wall, breath shallow. "They're flanking."
Dario palmed his switchblade. "Watch the puddle."
A boot splashed into oily water ten feet ahead. Dario threw the knife. It buried itself in the enforcer's thigh with a wet thunk. The man grunted but didn't go down, reaching for his holster.
Carmine's voice crackled through Dario's earpiece. "Perimeter's hot. They called in the cleanup crew."
Marco exhaled sharply. "Vincent's playing for keeps."
Dario didn't answer. He was watching the enforcer's hands—calloused, steady, the way they hesitated half a second before drawing the Glock. A warehouse grunt wouldn't pause. This was someone else's muscle.
Tommy lunged, tackling the wounded enforcer into the dumpster. The gun clattered across asphalt. Dario scooped it up, cracked the slide to check the round. Custom engraving on the barrel: V.M.
Vincent's personal stash.
"Kid." Dario tossed the Glock to Tommy. "You ever shot a man with his own boss's gun?"
Marco's curse cut through the earpiece. "They're boxing you in. North alley's clear—"
"Negative." Dario kicked over a trash can, sending rats scattering toward the approaching boots. "Vincent wants me alive." He grabbed Tommy's collar, shoving him toward the fire escape. "Up. Now."
The enforcer with the knife in his leg laughed, wet and ragged. "He wants you breathing, Vitale. Doesn't say shit about your kneecaps."
Carmine's diversion charge went off two blocks east—too far to help, close enough to make the enforcers twitch. Dario used the distraction to slam the man's head into the dumpster. Steel-toe boots scrambled behind them.
Tommy froze on the ladder. "They're cutting us off—"
"Move or bleed," Dario said, and the kid climbed.
A bullet punched through the metal grating near Dario's hand. He didn't flinch. Vincent's play was obvious now—herd him toward the meeting, make it look like surrender. The old man always underestimated how far loyalty could bend before it broke.
Marco's voice turned grim. "They're not Moretti's."
Dario watched the enforcers regroup below, their formation too tight for warehouse muscle. "No. They're Vincent's." He snapped the earpiece in half and dropped it. Tommy stared at him, the Glock trembling in his grip.
"Lesson one," Dario said, stepping onto the rooftop. "Loyalty's currency. Spend it wisely."
Behind them, the enforcers radioed for backup in Vincent's private code. Dario lit a cigarette with the last of his matches. The dawn would come early today.