Page 51 of Luciano

The blockade dissolved.

The road opened.

Our convoy surged forward, twenty SUVs deep, tires screeching against asphalt as the engines growled in unison.

I let out a humorless laugh. “Damn, man.”

Luciano didn’t respond. He wasn’t here. Not really. His body sat still, hands loose on his knees, but I could tell his mind was already inside that warehouse—already tearing through walls, already peeling flesh from bone.

My phone rang.

I answered before the first buzz ended. “Aria?”

Nothing.

Just static.

Then I heard a sharp inhale. A chair scraping against concrete.

My whole body locked up. “Hello?”

More static.

A ragged breath.

The sound of my heart hammering filled my ears.

I turned to the driver, my voice sharp. “Drive faster.”

Ten long minutes later, we arrived at the location. Our men spilled out of the SUVS, checking clips, loading rounds.

My eyes were locked on the warehouse door.

Luciano stood next to me, still as a grave.

I turned to my men. “If our wives don’t make it out,” I said, voice cold, absolute, “nobody in there does.”

They nodded.

That was it. That was the whole conversation.

A second stretched long.

The warehouse door creaked open.

Aria stepped out.

Untouched.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dragging over the line of armed men, the sea of black SUVs, the pure, violent chaos she had dragged us into.

Then—she smirked.

“Come in. Leave the men.”

Then she was gone.

My grip on my gun tightened.

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