Page 67 of Brando

The third man, the one who attached himself to his neck is the hardest, a hulking figure with a thick neck and bulging muscles. I can see the warning in the Enforcer’s eyes, before he lifts the side of his lip in a semi smirk and waggles his finger at the man. The guy’s standing in front of him, keeping his distance, but he’s got a wide stance, his hand hovering over the grip of his gun. This guy doesn’t look like he wants to go down easy; even the Enforcer’s clear warning doesn’t deter him from his madness. He asked for it.

I watch in awe as he backhands the man and sends him hurtling across the concrete. In this moment, he seems like a giant. A giant ball of fire intent on destruction. He pulls out his gun and shoots another that runs at him point blank in the head, even as he wrangles the gun from the man’s hand. His foot strikes out and he sends another man flying into the side wall of a container. And finally, despite all the stories I’ve heard and the impressive work he’s done for us, I understand why the Enforcer’s reputation precedes him; the man is a veritable machine.

Spurred on by his strength, the magnificent agility with which he moves, I’m on my feet and rushing at another man who’s come to join the party. My sheer speed takes him by surprise; I don’t stop until I’m in front of him, sending my knee into his torso, knocking his gun out of his hand. He’s down for the count, but another man latches onto my neck, and I feel the tip of the blade as it pierces my skin and blood starts its downward trail. I grab the blade, pushing it away from my skin, and I don’t let go, even as the knife cuts into the flesh of my palm. Blood oozes, the pain radiating through my whole body as I cling to the knife. If I let it go, I’m as good as dead.

A shot rings out, and the pressure on the knife is released, along with the weight of the man at my back. The knife is stuck in my hand as I stagger forward, trying to stay upright. Nausea overcomes me, but I push forward, removing the knife and letting it drop to the ground.

Suddenly, Mia is at my side, concern lacing her features, a gun in her hand.

“Sit down,” she commands, even as my knees buckle. She grabs me as I start to fall, but I’m too weak, too heavy for her to manage, so she guides me gently to the floor, breaking my fall so I don’t hurt anything vital.

“Rafi,” I mumble, heat overtaking my body.

The Enforcer staggers into view, blood coating his vest. At some point, he discarded his coat. I don’t think anyone has ever seen him without his coat on – even during the hardest of jobs, he’s always fashionably dressed in a full three-piece suit. I myself have never seen him so dishevelled, but I’m thankful that he’s alive.

“They’re fine,” he mutters, even as he takes out his phone and barks into it. “Surface wounds,” he says, as he turns back to me, throwing his phone to the ground. He rips a length of fabric from one of the men’s shirts and wraps it around my hand, stemming the blood. Tells me doctors and reinforcements are on the way.

I look around, my eyes trying to focus. All I see is the ground around us littered with bodies. I don’t know how many times I fall in and out of consciousness, trying desperately to stay awake, remain alert. But I know I’ve lost so much blood that unconsciousness is inevitable.

Rafi comes into view, looming above me, but all I see is his bloodstained clothes, and I’m so alarmed by the sight that I start to wonder if I’ve crossed to the other side and met him there.

“Stay with me, brother,” he whispers, as he lifts my head and cradles it in his lap.

“Mason.”

“He’s okay; clean exit wound. He’ll live.”

Any loss to me is like the removal of a limb. I can’t stand to lose men, let alone good ones. Mason Ironside has become more than a friend; he’s like a brother to Brando, and I know that Mia would be devastated if anything happened to him. He’s like a father to…

“Mia?” I try to sit up, but my brother holds me down. “Where’s Mia?” I ask, and he looks at me in confusion. “She was just here.”

34

MIA

Iwake to the sound of gunshots. Never in my entire twenty-five years have I mistaken the sound of gunshots for anything else. Not even the sound of a car backfiring comes close. I slide stealthily from the car, drop to a crouch and survey the vast expanse of the docks. It’s so large, I don’t know where to start. I put my ear to the ground, my own breathing stilted as I wait and listen so I can determine where the shots are coming from.

The night air is cold against my skin, and I feel the heaviness of it settle in my bones. The docks are deserted, but the low murmur of water slapping against the pier is interrupted by the sharp, sporadic cracks of gunfire. The echoes bounce off the metal containers, disorienting me, making it hard to pinpoint the direction.

All I can think of is Brando. Brando. His brothers. This can’t be the end for us.

I don't think twice. I’m already moving before my brain can catch up with my heart. The sounds are getting closer, not farther, and that sends a cold shiver of dread through me. If I don’t find him soon, I won’t be able to save him. I press myselfagainst the nearest shipping crate, holding my breath as I slip into the shadows, trying to stay low.

I know the docks too well. The hidden nooks. The paths between containers. The way the light barely touches some of the dark corners. I’m familiar with every inch of it from numerous trips here with my father—but right now, nothing feels familiar. Not the tension in the air. Not the sharp sounds that slice through it. The atmosphere feels alien, suffocating.

I round a corner, eyes flicking across the darkness. And that’s when I see him.

Scar Gatti.

Being mauled by a mountain of a man who has a knife at his neck as they struggle against each other, both fighting for control of the blade. Blood drips from Scar’s hand, staining the ground beneath him. The sight of him, still alive but clearly hurting, hits me like a punch to the gut.

His eyes are half-lidded, struggling to stay awake, and for a second, I hesitate. But I quickly come to my senses and lift the gun Mason entrusted me with from my waistband. I position myself at the man’s back, aim, and shoot. The man staggers, then drops to his knees, before crumpling to the ground

“Scar!” My voice comes out low but urgent.

In an instant, I’m by Scar’s side, struggling to guide him down before he falls and cracks his head open. He doesn’t react at first, his breath coming in shallow gasps. I crouch down beside him, scanning his injuries quickly. The cut to his palm looks deep, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. He starts to fall in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently.

“Mia,” he rasps, his voice hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here.”

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