Page 104 of Mafia Kingdom

He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Perhaps. But it's too late for that now." He gestures to his men. "Take him."

Two of the armed guards move forward, but before they can reach me, the warehouse windows explode inward in a shower of glass. Smoke canisters hit the concrete floor, immediately filling the space with thick, disorienting clouds.

Gunfire erupts from multiple directions. I drop to the ground, crawling toward Gerald's chair as bullets tear through the smoke around us.

"I am sorry," Gerald whispers as I reach him. "For what it's worth."

Before I can respond, Gerald's body jerks violently, blood blooming across his chest. A stray bullet—or perhaps not so stray—has found its mark.

The warehouse has become a chaotic battlefield, impossible to navigate through the smoke and gunfire. I can't tell who is shooting at whom, whether this is a police raid or something else entirely.

No matter what, I can’t let my father walk away from this. I need to end this now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Sasha

I WAIT ANXIOUSLY in the secured vehicle, tapping my fingers against my thigh as adrenaline courses through me. Tony insisted I stay protected while they mount the rescue, but sitting here feels impossible. My injured ankle throbs beneath its bandage, a dull reminder of why I'm supposed to stay put. But how can I remain here, safely tucked away, when Marco is in danger?

"Don't even think about it," Tony had warned before leaving. "Boss would kill me if anything happened to you."

The silence in the car is suffocating. Through the tinted windows, I can see the looming warehouse where Marco is being held. When sudden gunfire erupts from inside, my heart nearly stops. The decision makes itself. Protection be damned—I can't just sit by.

I quickly open the door, and I’m ready to jump out when the metallic gun on the front seat seems to be a beacon to me, more gunshots from behind make me quickly reach across and grab it before I jump out. My ankle protests with each step, but I grit my teeth against the pain and limp toward the warehouse entrance, using the chaos of the firefight as cover.

Inside, the air is thick with dust and the acrid smell of gunpowder. I stay low, navigating carefully through the maze of wooden crates and rusting machinery. Voices echo off the high ceiling—shouting, threats, the distinctive sounds of combat. I follow them, keeping to the shadows.

Then I see him.

Marco is locked in brutal combat with an older man I instantly recognize from photographs—Patrick Walsh. Father and son. The family resemblance is striking even as they try to destroy each other.

I inch closer, using a stack of pallets for cover. My breath catches as Patrick gains the upper hand, slamming Marco against a concrete wall with surprising strength for a man his age. The gun in Patrick's hand presses against Marco's temple. Even from here, I can see Marco's chest heaving, the trickle of blood from his split lip, the defiance still burning in his eyes despite his precarious position.

Those eyes suddenly lock with mine across the room—a moment of connection amid the violence. I see recognition, then alarm. He doesn't want me here, doesn't want me in danger. But I'm already raising Tony's gun, aiming at the ceiling above them. I have no idea if the gun is loaded, I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger.

The warning shot reverberates through the warehouse like a thunderclap. Patrick startles, his concentration broken just long enough. Marco seizes the moment, breaking his father's grip and twisting the gun from his hand in one fluid motion. The older man stumbles backward.

Before Patrick can find his balance, the warehouse door crashes open again, and a group of men raise their guns. I duck behind the crates as gunfire rips through the warehouse. Covering my ears, I cower.

Something touches my arm, and I scream, only to come face to face with Marco.

"Why did you come?" Marco demands of me as bullets chip away at our cover. "I told you to stay safe."

His anger doesn't mask the concern in his eyes, the fear—not for himself, but for me. I reach for his face, brushing away a smear of blood from his cheek.

“I needed to know you were safe.” My reasoning is weak now as we both huddle against the crates.

The shooting stops for a moment, and Marco glances out from behind the crate. I want to reach out and drag him back, but he’s already crawling away.

“Marco!” I shout.

It only takes a moment before he returns with his father, who’s been shot. His face white as a ghost. Several wounds in his chest bleed, drenching him in blood.

Marco holds his father as he dies, cradling the man who caused him so much pain.

The gunfire outside intensifies. Marco gently lays his father's body down and turns to me with renewed purpose.

"We need to move," he says, checking the ammunition in his weapon. "Can you walk?"

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