CHAPTER 19 THE SAFEHOUSE RAID #2
A lie, and a thin one. The warehouse was Mazzini territory, not Moretti’s. Dominic was fishing, which meant he didn’t have Vincent’s full backing. She let her fingers brush the towel. "Your brother know you’re freelancing?"
Something flickered in Dominic’s eyes—anger, or maybe fear. Paul shifted his weight, the subtle tell of a man waiting for orders to change.
Carmine cleared his throat. "Boss. The upstairs is clear." He held up Evelyn’s go-bag, the contents spilling from the unzipped top. Her spare lockpicks clattered to the floor.
Dominic toed them aside. "Planning a trip?"
"Always." Evelyn watched Rizzo’s grip on Owen tighten. The enforcer’s knuckles whitened—too much pressure for a compliant prisoner. Owen’s breath hitched, but he didn’t make a sound.
Dominic followed her gaze and smiled. "He’s not your problem anymore." He snapped his fingers. "Dario. Search her."
Dario Vitale emerged from the hallway shadows, his dress shoes silent on the linoleum. He didn’t reach for Evelyn. Just stood there, blocking the last clear path to the door, his expression unreadable.
Evelyn exhaled through her nose. "You’re better than this, Vitale."
"Debatable." Dario’s gaze dropped to the dish towel. "Knife. Left side."
Dominic laughed. "Of course." He stepped closer, invading Evelyn’s space. His cologne smelled expensive and wrong—like citrus over rot. "You’ve got ten seconds to tell me who you’re working for."
"Nine." Evelyn yanked the towel aside, steel flashing toward Dominic’s throat.
The gunshot cracked before her lunge finished. Pain seared through her shoulder as the bullet grazed flesh. She staggered, knife clattering to the floor. Dario hadn’t moved. Neither had Paul.
Carmine lowered his smoking pistol. "Next one’s center mass."
Dominic adjusted his cuffs, untouched. "Wrong answer." He turned to Paul. "Get Pryor to the car. Vitale—clean this up."
Dario caught Evelyn’s arm as her knees buckled. His grip was firm, impersonal. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Owen’s muffled curse as Rizzo dragged him toward the ruined doorway.
Dominic paused on the threshold. "Tell your boss the docks are ours. If he wants them back, he can beg Vincent in person."
The doorframe creaked as Carmine followed him out. Evelyn counted four breaths before Dario released her. He crouched to retrieve her knife, flipping it grip-first toward her.
"You’re lucky," he said. "Dominic’s impatient today."
Evelyn pressed a hand to her bleeding shoulder. The wound was shallow, but it would scar. "And you?"
Dario stood, straightening his tie. "I’m exactly what you expect." He turned toward the door, then hesitated. "The Mazzini girl. Maya. She’s running messages for you."
Not a question. Evelyn kept her face still.
"Tell her to stop." Dario didn’t look back as he walked out. "Next time, I won’t aim for the shoulder."
The engine roared outside, tires spitting gravel. Evelyn snatched up her knife with her good arm. Owen was gone. The safehouse was blown. And Dominic Moretti had just declared war on a ghost.
She touched the bullet graze, fingers coming away red. The blood smelled like iron and gunpowder. Like a promise.
The door slammed open with a force that rattled the hinges, and Carmine Russo barely had time to dive behind the overturned table before the first shot rang out.
The bullet splintered the wood above his head, sending a spray of sharp fragments into the air.
He cursed under his breath, his gloved hands already moving to check the clip in his pistol.
Across the room, Ezra Ward crouched low behind a filing cabinet, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts.
His dark eyes scanned the room, calculating angles and escape routes with the precision of someone who’d spent too much time in situations like this.
"Russo," Ezra hissed, his voice low but urgent. "We’re pinned. They’ve got us flanked."
Carmine didn’t need the warning. He could hear the footsteps closing in from both sides, the heavy tread of boots on concrete.
He risked a glance over the edge of the table and caught a glimpse of Paul Rizzo’s men advancing, their weapons raised and eyes cold.
He ducked back just as another shot tore through the air, grazing his shoulder.
The sting of it was sharp, but he didn’t flinch.
Pain was a distraction, and distractions got you killed.
"Mount up," Carmine growled, his voice steady despite the chaos. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, cylindrical device, flicking the switch with practiced ease. "On my mark."
Ezra nodded, his grip tightening on his own weapon. He didn’t ask questions. When Carmine Russo said to mount a defense, you didn’t argue—you just hoped he knew what he was doing.
The device in Carmine’s hand beeped once, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. He waited, counting the seconds in his head. The footsteps grew louder, closer. He could hear the low murmur of voices now, the men coordinating their approach. They thought they had him cornered. They were wrong.
"Now," Carmine barked, hurling the device into the center of the room.
It exploded with a blinding flash of light and a deafening bang, the concussion wave knocking the advancing men off their feet.
Carmine was already moving, rolling out from behind the table and firing two precise shots into the nearest body.
Ezra followed suit, his movements fluid and deadly as he took down another man with a single shot to the chest.
The room was chaos, smoke and debris filling the air, but Carmine and Ezra moved with the kind of desperate efficiency that only came from years of practice. They didn’t waste a single bullet, didn’t take a single step without purpose. Every movement was calculated, every shot intentional.
But they were still outnumbered.
"Fall back," Carmine ordered, his voice cutting through the din. He jerked his head toward the door behind them, the one that led deeper into the building. "We’re not holding this position."
Ezra didn’t argue. He fired off another round to cover their retreat, then sprinted after Carmine, his boots pounding against the concrete floor.
They burst through the door and slammed it shut behind them, Carmine immediately throwing the lock and shoving a heavy metal cabinet in front of it for good measure.
"Where’s Pryor?" Ezra demanded, his chest heaving as he leaned against the wall. "We can’t leave him."
Carmine’s jaw tightened. "Rizzo’s got him. We’re not getting him back without a plan."
Ezra cursed, running a hand through his hair. "We’re running out of time. If Rizzo gets him to Vincent—"
"I know," Carmine interrupted, his voice sharp. He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. "We need backup. Dario’s on his way, but we’re not waiting."
Ezra’s eyes narrowed. "What are you thinking?"
Carmine’s lips curved into a grim smile. "We’re not defending anymore. We’re taking the fight to them."
The sound of heavy boots pounding against the door behind them echoed through the room, a stark reminder that they didn’t have much time. Carmine reloaded his weapon, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He glanced at Ezra, his expression hard.
"You ready?"
Ezra nodded, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Let’s finish this."
Carmine didn’t need to say anything else. They moved in unison, their steps synchronized as they headed deeper into the building, toward the heart of the storm. The stakes were clear, the cost already mounting. But Carmine Russo didn’t back down from a fight, and neither did Ezra Ward.
Not when lives were on the line.
Evelyn pressed her back against the damp brick wall, her breath coming too fast. Maya Torres crouched beside her, one hand gripping Evelyn’s wrist hard enough to leave marks. The distant shouts of Rizzo’s men echoed through the tunnels, bouncing off the low ceilings.
"Move," Maya hissed, tugging Evelyn forward. "They’re not checking these passages yet, but they will."
Evelyn swallowed, tasting dust and old blood. The hidden route had saved them so far—narrow, twisting, carved out of the building’s bones decades ago, forgotten by everyone but the rats and the desperate. She didn’t know how Maya had known about it, and right now, she didn’t care.
A broken pipe dripped somewhere ahead, the rhythmic plink of water hitting concrete the only sound beyond their ragged breathing. Evelyn’s knee hit a rusted metal grate, the impact vibrating up her leg. She bit back a curse.
Maya didn’t slow. "Left here," she whispered, veering sharply into an even tighter corridor. Evelyn followed, her shoulder scraping rough mortar. The air smelled like wet stone and something sour—mold, maybe, or the ghosts of old spills.
Behind them, a door slammed. Too close.
Evelyn’s pulse spiked. "They’re in the tunnels."
"I know." Maya’s voice was flat. She shoved open a warped wooden door half-rotted from moisture, revealing a steep staircase descending into darkness. "Down. Now."
Evelyn hesitated—just a fraction of a second—but it was enough. Maya’s fingers dug into her arm. "You want to die here?"
No. She didn’t.
They took the stairs two at a time, the wood groaning under their weight. At the bottom, the passage widened slightly, the ceiling high enough that Evelyn could straighten fully for the first time in what felt like hours. A single exposed bulb flickered ahead, casting erratic shadows.
Maya stopped dead, her body rigid. "Shit."
Evelyn followed her gaze. The bulb wasn’t flickering—something was moving in front of it. A man’s silhouette, broad-shouldered, hands loose at his sides. Waiting.
Dario Vitale stepped into the light.
"Ladies," he said, voice smooth as poured bourbon. "You’re making this harder than it needs to be."
Maya shifted slightly, putting herself between Evelyn and Dario. "We’re leaving."
"Not through here." He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t have to. The weight of his presence filled the passage like smoke, inescapable.
Evelyn exhaled through her teeth. She knew that tone. Knew that look. Dario wasn’t here to drag them back. He was here to negotiate.