16. The Calm Before the Storm
The Calm Before the Storm
Damian
Blood waiting to be spilled.
I adjust my gloves, the leather stretched tight over my fingers, and scan the docks ahead. The Berettis are here. Hidden in the maze of rusted shipping containers, they think they own this place. They think they own Alessandra.
They have no idea what’s coming.
Behind me, my men emerge from the vehicles, dressed in black, moving with lethal precision. Each of them is armed with suppressed weapons, blades strapped to their gear. No unnecessary noise. No mercy.
The plan is set.
No words are needed.
I exhale slowly, locking away everything except the mission. The world narrows to a single purpose.
Find Alessandra.
Kill anyone who gets in my way.
I raise two fingers. A silent signal.
Without hesitation, my men split into three groups, disappearing into the shadows.
We move like phantoms, weaving through the towering stacks of rusted shipping containers, each footstep carefully placed to avoid detection.
The dockyard is a labyrinth of steel and concrete, dimly lit by overhead lamps flickering against the damp night air.
The sound of the waves lapping against the pier is the only noise that fills the silence. No idle chatter. No shifting feet. No breathing louder than necessary. This is what we do—what we were trained for.
My fingers tighten around my rifle as I move toward the entrance. Two Beretti guards stand near a metal gate, their backs half-turned as they share a cigarette, completely unaware of what’s about to happen.
Idiots.
I flick my wrist. Another signal.
In perfect synchrony, one of my men moves behind them, a blade flashing in the moonlight. The first guard barely has time to gasp before a gloved hand covers his mouth, the knife slicing cleanly across his throat. The second guard stiffens, his hand dropping to his holster.
Too late.
A suppressed gunshot whispers through the air. A small puff of crimson explodes from his temple before he crumples to the ground. The Berettis drop without so much as a sound, their bodies dragged into the shadows before anyone can notice.
I exhale slowly.
We’re in.
And they still don’t know we’re coming.
Static crackles softly in my earpiece as my men whisper confirmations of their positions. The Berettis have no idea we’re already inside.
I ascend a rusted metal staircase, keeping my steps featherlight. The second-floor catwalk creaks faintly beneath my boots, but the noise is swallowed by the distant hum of machinery and the occasional muffled conversation below.
Then, I see her.
Alessandra.
She’s bound to a chair in the center of the warehouse, her wrists tied behind her back, her face partially obscured by strands of dark hair matted with sweat and blood. My jaw tightens. She looks exhausted but unbroken. Even now, her posture is rigid, her gaze unwavering.
My grip on my rifle steadies as my gaze shifts.
Dante Beretti sits near her, leaning back in a chair with one foot propped on the table, twirling a knife between his fingers. His expression is casual, amused, like he’s waiting for a show.
Antonio stands farther back, near a cluster of his men. His arms are crossed, his presence commanding, but there’s an ease to him that pisses me off. He’s too comfortable.
The Berettis think they’re in control.
They think they have time.
They don’t.
I lift my rifle, the red dot of my scope hovering over Dante’s skull. One shot. One pull of the trigger, and this all ends.
But before I can take it, Antonio speaks.
My finger tightens on the trigger. One shot. One breath. One pull, and Dante Beretti’s skull will be nothing but red mist.
Then Antonio’s voice cuts through the tense quiet, stopping me cold.
“You know, Dante… I have a feeling our little rat is on his way.”
My jaw clenches as I watch Antonio pace near the stacked crates, his voice carrying easily in the cavernous space. He’s too calm, too confident. He doesn’t know I’m already here, but he expects me.
“LaCampanella’s a stubborn bastard,” Antonio muses, dragging a cigar from his pocket and lighting it like this is nothing more than a friendly gathering. Smoke coils around him, the orange glow casting sharp shadows on his angular face. “Think he’d let his baby sister die just to prove a point?”
Dante chuckles, flipping his knife effortlessly between his fingers before dragging the cool steel along Alessandra’s chin.
My muscles lock.
Alessandra doesn’t flinch, her expression carved from stone. But I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers clench behind the ropes binding her. She knows I’m here. She’s waiting.
Dante’s grin widens, his voice dripping with mockery. “I think he’ll come.” He presses the blade just under her jaw, applying enough pressure to force her chin up. “But the real question?” His eyes flicker toward Antonio before settling on Alessandra’s face, drinking in her defiance.
“Will he leave alive?”
My heartbeat slows, my breath steady, my vision narrowing.
Dante thinks he’s playing a game.
He doesn’t realize he’s already lost.
I don’t wait.
The second Dante’s lips curl into that cocky, smug grin, I pull the trigger.
A single, suppressed shot whistles through the air. The guard nearest Antonio doesn’t even have time to react—one moment he’s standing, the next he’s crumpling to the floor, a hole between his eyes.
The second shot follows before the first body even hits the concrete.
Another Beretti soldier drops, blood pooling beneath him.
Silence doesn’t last.
Gunfire erupts, the first blast shattering the tension like glass. My men move in like wraiths, their suppressed rounds slicing through the chaos. Some shots are silenced, methodical—others ring out loud as hell, echoing off the high metal rafters.
Shouts explode across the warehouse as Beretti’s men scramble for cover, overturning crates, ducking behind shipping containers. Shadows flicker under the dim warehouse lights, bodies moving, dodging, firing. The sharp scent of gunpowder thickens the air.
I move with precision, sweeping down the catwalk, keeping my rifle steady. My focus narrows, everything else fading. My pulse slows, my body fueled by the kind of adrenaline that makes everything sharper.
And then I see her.
Alessandra.
Her eyes lock onto mine from across the battlefield.
She’s still bound, her breathing heavy, her lip split, but she’s alive. Relief slams into me like a freight train, but I don’t let it slow me down.
I move toward her, cutting down another soldier in my path.
Dante’s standing behind her now, that goddamn grin still carved onto his face. A gun in his hand, pressed to Alessandra’s temple.
My stomach tightens into a fist. My rifle stays steady, aimed at his head, but I can’t pull the trigger. Not yet. Not with her in the way.
Dante meets my eyes, lips curling into something wicked.
“Come on, Damian,” he taunts, voice barely audible over the chaos. “Let’s see how good your aim really is.”