Twelve mafia heads—men whose mere frown could collapse banks and silence prosecutors—sat frozen around the mahogany dining tables. Their eyes shifted back and forth between Alessandro Moretti kneeling on the cold marble, and a battered, threadbare blue rabbit clutched in the tiny hands of a three-year-old child.

Our convoy of three armored black SUVs cut their headlights a mile away, rolling silently toward Pier 42—the abandoned shipping yard owned by Marco Vane’s front company.

Inside the lead vehicle, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers clenched tightly around the strap of a heavy tactical vest Luca had insisted I wear. In the back seat, Emma was fast asleep, curled up with her blue rabbit, exhausted from the madness of the past two days. Alessandro had left two of his most trusted guards behind in the armored car to watch over her.

“When we breach the warehouse,” Alessandro said, checking the magazine of his submachine gun with a sharp clack, “stay behind me. Do not wander off. Vane’s men aren't businessmen; they’re animals.”

“I know how to handle myself, Alessandro,” I said quietly, turning to look at him. The dim dashboard light carved sharp shadows across his face. “I spent two years surviving on the streets of this city while men like you looked the other way. I’m not going to slow you down.”

Alessandro paused, looking at me with a new depth of realization in his eyes. The protective distance he usually kept from the world—from humanity itself—seemed to fracture a little more.

“I’m beginning to realize, Elena,” he murmured, his voice softening over the roar of the rain, “that you don't need anyone to protect you at all.”

Before I could answer, Luca’s voice crackled over the secure radio headset.

“Boss. We have movement on the catwalks. Sector Three. Vane’s waiting for us.”

Alessandro’s face hardened instantly back into the mask of the mafia king. He kicked open the car door, stepping out into the torrential rain.

“Let’s finish this.”

We moved with terrifying speed. Luca and four enforcers flanked the side entrance of the massive corrugated steel warehouse, while Alessandro and I took the main sliding door. With a deafening crash, Alessandro kicked the steel door off its hydraulic tracks, sending it flying inward.

Gunfire erupted instantly.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off concrete and steel pillars. Alessandro returned fire with cold, deadly precision, dropping two armed guards before they even had time to adjust their sights.

“Stay down!” Alessandro shouted over the deafening roar, pulling me behind a stack of wooden export crates.

I peeked around the edge of the crate, my eyes scanning the high catwalks above. A figure stood up in the shadows of the crane balcony, holding a heavy assault rifle aimed squarely at Alessandro’s back.

It wasn't one of Vane’s grunts. It was Marco Vane himself—gaunt, scarred from the explosion three years ago, his eyes burning with absolute psychotic rage.