Luciano's foot slammed the gas pedal to the floor, tires screeching as the Maserati roared through the streets like a beast unleashed. His pulse was a war drum, every muscle coiled with fury. The image of Ariana tied to that chair was burned into his mind—her terrified eyes, the bruises on her skin, the trembling that even the camera couldn't hide.
This wasn't business. This wasn't about territory or money.
This was personal.
His phone rang. Marco.
"Boss, what's happening? We just caught chatter. Someone hit the security at the penthouse."
"They took her," Luciano's voice was lower than a growl. "Ariana. They have her."
"Dio santo," Marco cursed. "Where?"
Luciano gripped the wheel tighter. "They sent coordinates. An abandoned slaughterhouse, west docks. They want me alone."
"You're not going alone."
"Marco," Luciano's voice cut sharp. "You know how this works. If they see you, she dies."
"You expect me to sit on my hands?" Marco snapped.
"No. I expect you to shadow me," Luciano said, voice like iron. "Position teams. Silent. No one moves unless I say."
There was a pause, then Marco sighed. "Understood."
Luciano ended the call, his jaw locked so tight it hurt. His fingers brushed the scar on his shoulder—a reminder of his old life, his old mistakes.
Not this time. Not her.
The slaughterhouse loomed ahead, a decaying ruin of twisted metal and broken concrete. Rusted hooks dangled from the ceiling, swaying like pendulums of death. The air reeked of old blood and mold.
Luciano stepped out of the car, alone, hands raised, weapon holstered.
A door creaked open. Three men stepped out—faces masked, rifles in hand. One jerked his chin. "This way."
Luciano's gaze swept the area. No snipers. No visible guards beyond the three. Which meant either they were stupid—or very confident.
Or worse... there were traps he couldn't see.
He was led inside, boots echoing off the stained concrete. The deeper they went, the colder it got. The stink of death clung to the walls like a memory.
And then he saw her.
Ariana. Strapped to a steel chair, wrists bound, a gag across her mouth. Her eyes widened the moment she saw him—fear, relief, and something fiercer... hope.
One of the men grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. "Cute little thing, isn't she?"
Luciano's jaw ticked, hands curling into fists. "Let her go."
A slow clap echoed from the shadows.
"Well, well," a deep voice sneered. "If it isn't the mighty Luciano De Luca."
A man stepped into the light.
Victor Moretti.
Tall. Silver hair slicked back. A three-piece suit tailored to perfection. Handsome in the way only monsters could be—polished on the surface, rotten underneath.
"You've been busy," Moretti smirked. "Killing Giovanni... burning half the city... thinking you're untouchable."
Luciano's voice was razor sharp. "You've made a mistake touching her."
Moretti chuckled. "No, no. You did. You forgot the rule of kings, De Luca. When you rise... the others pull you down."
Luciano took a step forward. "Let her go, and maybe I'll let you crawl out of this."
Laughter echoed.
"You're in no position to bargain," Moretti sneered. He snapped his fingers. One of the guards cocked his rifle, aiming it at Ariana's head.
Luciano's heart clenched—but his face stayed stone cold. "Kill her... and I swear... you won't live long enough to regret it."
Moretti leaned in slightly, watching him. "You know what I think, De Luca? You've gone soft. All this... for a woman?"
Luciano smiled. Slow. Dark.
"Not soft." His eyes burned. "Focused."
The signal was subtle—a single twitch of his hand.
Outside, suppressed gunfire cracked.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The guards standing near the entrance dropped, one by one, like puppets with their strings cut.
Moretti spun. "What the—"
Luciano moved like lightning. His gun was out before Moretti's hand reached his holster.
Bang.
The bullet tore through the shoulder of the man holding Ariana, sending him crashing backward.
Bang. Bang.
Two more guards went down before they could react.
Chaos exploded. Moretti dove behind a crate, firing wildly. Bullets ricocheted off metal beams as Marco and Sergio stormed in through the side entrance, weapons drawn, cutting down Moretti's men with brutal efficiency.
Luciano dashed forward, tearing the ropes from Ariana's wrists. Her hands flew to his shoulders, shaking, but alive. "You... you came..."
His fingers cupped her face. "I always will."
A shot rang out—barely missing his head. Luciano spun, dragging Ariana down, returning fire. Moretti scrambled for the back exit, clutching a bleeding arm.
"Not today," Luciano growled.
Sergio shouted, "He's running!"
"Cover her!" Luciano snapped, shoving Ariana into Marco's arms.
Without hesitation, he chased after Moretti, boots pounding against concrete, gun raised.
Moretti stumbled through a hallway lined with hanging chains, blood trailing behind him. He shoved a crate, blocking the path, but Luciano was faster. He leaped over it, rolling, gun aimed.
"Moretti!"
The man turned, raising his weapon.
Too slow.
Bang.
The bullet hit Moretti's thigh. He screamed, collapsing to the floor.
Luciano stormed forward, kicking the gun from his hand, pressing his own pistol to Moretti's forehead.
"Please..." Moretti gasped, hand raised. "We can deal... I can give you anything—"
Luciano's voice was death itself. "You already took everything."
His finger tightened.
But then... a sound.
Footsteps.
Not Marco. Not Sergio.
More.
More men.
Luciano spun, realizing too late—it was an ambush within an ambush.
Dozens of boots. Cocking rifles.
A deep voice echoed from the darkness. "Drop your weapon, De Luca... or die here."
Luciano's finger hovered on the trigger.
Rage boiled in his chest.
But for the first time in a long time... he was outnumbered.
Outgunned.
Cornered.
For now.