26. Luca
Luca
The night is cold, but I don’t feel it.
I step out of the car, my breath fogging slightly in the air. The warehouse looms ahead—dark, rusted, abandoned. The weak flicker of a broken streetlamp barely illuminates the skeletal structure.
Renzo is here.
I know it in my bones.
The place is too quiet.
No guards. No movement. Too easy.
A trap.
But it doesn’t matter.
Not tonight.
I move forward, my boots crunching over loose gravel. The air smells like damp concrete, old wood, and—gasoline.
Gasoline.
I tighten my grip on my gun.
The doorway yawns open, shadows stretching deep inside. I clear it fast, slipping into the darkness, my movements sharp and controlled.
Then—a voice.
Low. Amused.
"Took you long enough, Marchesi."
I pivot immediately, gun raised, finger steady on the trigger.
Renzo steps out of the darkness.
He’s alone—or pretending to be. His suit is wrinkled, his lip split, blood smeared along his temple. He looks tired, worn.
But that smirk? That arrogance?
Still there.
"You’re out of men," I say, my voice even.
Renzo spreads his arms slightly, palms up. "Guess that makes us even, huh?"
I don’t lower my gun.
"You’re out of power."
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "And yet, here we are."
I take a step forward.
"You’re out of time."
His smirk widens.
"And yet, I’m still smiling."
I don’t care what he has to say.
I came here to finish this.
I tighten my grip on the gun, finger hovering over the trigger—
Then—
A gunshot.
Not from me.
The sharp crack splits the night, shattering the tension.
I whip around—instincts firing.
And that’s when I see him.
Matteo.
Standing near the entrance. Gun raised. Barely upright.
Too pale. Too weak.
But he’s here.
He shouldn’t be here.
Anger slices through me.
"I told you to stay back." My voice is steel.
Matteo smirks weakly, though the pain in his stance is obvious. "You really think I was gonna sit this one out?"
Frustration burns through my chest. He’s still bleeding, still recovering. He should be at the safehouse.
But he’s here.
Because of course he is.
I don’t look away from him, but I feel Renzo watching.
"Oh, this is rich," Renzo mutters, his voice too casual. "Brotherly reunion, right at the end?"
I finally turn back to him.
"This is the end," I say flatly.
Renzo tilts his head. "For who, though?"
Matteo shifts slightly beside me—but something in his expression changes.
His gaze flicks down.
Then—his face tightens.
My gut clenches.
"What?" I ask sharply.
Matteo’s fingers tense around his gun, his breathing suddenly uneven.
"Luca—" His voice isn’t mocking anymore. It’s urgent.
His eyes are locked on the ground.
I follow his gaze—
And that’s when I see it.
Thin. Barely visible in the dim light.
A wire.
My pulse slams into overdrive.
The wire runs along the floor, snaking through the debris, weaving between rusted beams.
Leading straight to the entrance.
My stomach drops.
Renzo chuckles.
Slowly, he lifts his hand.
And I see it.
A small, black device.
A detonator.
Matteo swears under his breath.
"You think I didn’t plan for this?" Renzo murmurs, his voice almost amused. "You think I didn’t see this coming?"
A bomb.
I don’t have time to think.
I move.
But Matteo moves first.
He lunges.
Not at Renzo.
At me.
I barely register the impact before his shoulder slams into my chest, shoving me back.
"Matteo—"
Then—
BOOM.
The world erupts.
The explosion detonates with brutal force, the shockwave slamming into me like a wrecking ball. Fire and steel explode outward, debris slicing through the air.
Then—impact.
I hit the concrete hard. Pain detonates across my ribs, white-hot and unrelenting. My ears ring so violently that for a second—everything is silent.
Then, through the haze—
A weak, ragged cough.
Matteo.
Adrenaline shoves me forward. I push off the cracked floor, lungs burning as I shove aside wreckage. The fire devours the warehouse, turning the walls into flickering sheets of orange and black.
My pulse hammers.
I twist toward the sound, my heart slamming against my ribs—and then I see him.
Matteo lies half-buried beneath a fallen support beam, his body twisted at a brutal angle. His face is streaked with blood.
His chest rises—but barely.
"Matteo!" My voice comes out raw, broken.
Nothing.
I force myself to move. Every muscle protests, pain clawing at my ribs, but I push forward.
I drop to my knees beside him, my hands already reaching—gripping his jacket, pressing fingers against his pulse.
Still there.
But too weak.
"Come on, fratellino," I mutter, shaking him slightly. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
Still nothing.
My hands tighten on his jacket. The fire closes in, thick smoke turning the air into poison. We have seconds—maybe less—before this place collapses.
Then—a weak, low chuckle.
Not Matteo.
Not the fire.
Renzo.
I twist my head toward the wreckage, my jaw locking.
He’s slumped against a collapsed pillar, half-buried under rubble. Blood drips from his temple, his suit torn and shredded.
But he’s alive.
Barely.
And he’s still smiling.
"You think this is over?" His voice is weak, hoarse—but the arrogance is still there.
Rage burns through me, cutting through the exhaustion.
I grip my gun, aiming it straight at his head.
"Neither of us is walking away from this," Renzo breathes.
His fingers twitch weakly, as if trying to move, trying to fight.
But he’s done.
I watch him for a moment, finger tightening on the trigger.
Then—
A sharp, pained inhale.
A choked sound.
Matteo.
I snap my head down.
His fingers twitch, his body shuddering. His lips part—a rough, strangled breath escapes.
"Shit."
I don’t hesitate.
I lower the gun.
Renzo doesn’t matter anymore.
Matteo does.
I shift, hauling Matteo up despite the screaming pain in my ribs. His weight is dead against me, too heavy, too limp.
But I don’t let go.
Flames roar around me as I push forward, Matteo’s body dragging against mine. I don’t stop. I don’t slow.
Then—a sharp crack.
The ceiling groans violently.
I barely have time to react before a support beam collapses, crashing into the floor behind us. The force sends another shockwave through the structure.
I lunge—throwing myself and Matteo through the last open doorway.
We burst into the night.
I stagger forward, legs buckling, Matteo’s weight dragging me down.
We collapse onto the cold dirt, the warehouse burning behind us.
My chest heaves. My lungs burn.
But we’re out.
We made it.
But—
Matteo isn’t moving.
My breath shudders out. I roll him onto his back, my fingers pressing against his pulse.
Still there.
But too weak.
A sharp panic cuts through me.
I press my forehead against his for half a second, my hands tightening on his jacket.
"Don’t you dare die on me."
No response.
The flames rage behind us.
Renzo is still inside.
I don’t know if he’s dead.
And I don’t care.
I look down at Matteo.
His breaths are too shallow. His face is too pale.
I press my palm against his chest, feeling the sluggish rise and fall beneath my fingers. Still breathing. Still fighting.
But barely.
"Hold on," I mutter, shifting my grip. "I’ve got you."
I can’t stay here.
I scan the area—dark trees, cracked pavement, no headlights in sight. Nico was supposed to be on standby, but he’s not here yet.
And I don’t have time to wait.
With a deep breath, I shift Matteo’s weight, pulling his arm over my shoulder.
He’s dead weight—his legs barely move.
But I don’t let go.
"We’re getting out of here," I murmur.
I haul him up, gripping him tight, pushing forward.
The muscles in my back burn, my ribs screaming from earlier hits, but I keep going. Step after step, dragging him along, refusing to stop.
And then—
Headlights.
A pair of bright beams cut through the darkness, a low rumble of an engine breaking the suffocating silence.
A black SUV pulls up fast, tires skidding against the dirt.
The driver’s door flies open—Nico.
His face is tight, his eyes flicking over the scene in quick assessment. The fire. The wreckage. Matteo.
"Shit," he curses, moving fast.
I don’t wait for him to ask questions.
"Help me get him in the car," I snap.
Nico doesn’t hesitate.
Together, we haul Matteo into the back seat. He slumps against the leather, his head tilting toward the window, his breathing still too slow.
I slide in beside him, keeping a hand against his pulse.
It’s even weaker than before.
"Drive," I order.
Nico doesn’t argue.
The tires kick up dust as we speed away, leaving the burning warehouse in the rearview mirror.
I focus on Matteo.
His body is limp, blood seeping into the seat beneath him. His skin is cold.
Too damn cold.
"Stay with me," I murmur, shaking him slightly. "You don’t get to check out yet."
His eyelids flutter.
My chest clenches.
"That’s it," I urge. "Keep your damn eyes open."
Matteo shifts slightly, a weak groan escaping his lips. His head turns toward me, his bloodshot eyes barely cracking open.
I exhale sharply, my grip tightening on his wrist.
"There you are," I mutter. "Took you long enough."
His mouth twitches. Not a smirk—not really.
But it’s something.
"You look like shit," he rasps.
My chest tightens painfully.
"Yeah, well," I mutter. "You look worse."
His breath hitches slightly, his fingers twitching against his leg.
Then his eyes slide shut again.
I shake him.
"No," I snap. "You stay awake."
He lets out a shaky breath.
"Tired."
"I don’t give a shit."
His lips part slightly, like he wants to argue.
Then, barely above a whisper—
"Did we win?"
I look at him.
At the bruises on his face, the dried blood on his temple, the way he’s still fighting to stay conscious despite every reason not to.
My throat tightens.
"Yeah, fratellino," I say quietly. "We won."
He exhales, like that’s all he needed to hear.
His head tilts against the seat, his body going slack again.
His breathing is still too shallow.
His pulse still too faint.
And I realize something.
The war isn’t over.
Not until I get him home.
Not until I know he’s going to live.
I grip his wrist tighter, my jaw locking as the SUV speeds through the empty streets.
"Get us back to the safehouse," I tell Nico.
He nods, pressing harder on the gas.
Matteo’s pulse is still there.
I hold onto that.
Because right now, it’s the only thing keeping me from losing my damn mind.