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The rain pelted the roof of the armored black Cadillac with the force of falling lead. Inside, the cabin was suffocatingly silent, save for the rhythmic, mechanical swipe of the windshield wipers. I reached into my coat pocket, my thumb grazing the damp, frayed fabric of Miss Rose. / Chapter 5 / 20

Chapter 5 - Fire and Rain

Marco and a dozen elite enforcers poured through the wreckage like a tidal wave of tactical gear and automatic gunfire.

Chaos erupted in a fraction of a second.

The enforcer standing next to Colombo never even got his weapon off his safety before a volley of silenced rounds tore through his chest, dropping him instantly. The second guard lunged for Elena, but Marco’s rifle cracked twice, spinning the man into a stack of empty pallets.

Colombo shrieked, pressing the barrel harder against Elena’s head, backing away toward the rear exit. "Drop your weapons! I swear to God I'll blow her brains out right now!"

"Drop it, Vincent," I said, walking slowly forward, my Kimber locked squarely on the center of his forehead.

"You can't shoot! I'll take her with me!"

"You won't make it three steps," I replied coldly. "You thought I was coming here to negotiate. You thought you could bleed my family and walk away with thirty percent of my ports."

"Moretti—wait—we can talk—"

"There's nothing left to discuss."

Before Colombo could squeeze the trigger, a sharp, piercing crack echoed through the warehouse rafters. It wasn't my gun.

From the catwalk above, a figure in a dark hoodie raised a silenced rifle.

Thwack.

A clean hole appeared right between Vincent Colombo’s eyes. His expression froze in mid-panic, his fingers releasing their grip on the silver revolver as he slumped backward into the dirt, lifeless before he hit the ground.

I looked up at the catwalk.

A man pulled down his hood, revealing the sharp, scarred features of Niko Bellini.

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The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled from a sunken ship. Across the line, Marcus let out a breath that sounded like a low whistle escaping a pressure valve. Nineteen years of rust, nineteen years of school plays, quiet dinners, and ledger sheets—all of it dissolved in the space of a single heartbeat.

The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled...

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me three agonizing seconds to place the face behind the silver-trimmed beard. Arthur Vance. The reclusive billionaire shipping tycoon, corporate sniper, and my father’s oldest, most estranged rival.

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The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was darker, heavier, pressed down with the kind of deliberate malice that only a fountain pen could deliver. I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

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Marco lowered his rifle, staring up at Niko with narrowed eyes. "What the hell is this?"

Niko tossed the rifle down onto the concrete floor below, raising his empty hands as he walked down the metal stairs toward us. "I told you I’d bring him to you, boss," Niko said calmly. "I just took the shortcut."

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