Page 84 of Ruthless Arrangement

I move before conscious decision forms, advancing on Matteo with single-minded purpose. As I move past another attacker, a blade slashes across my shoulder. I register the burning pain distantly, irrelevantly. My world has narrowed to a single objective: Matteo, the man who executed Marco will die by my hand.

Three shots in rapid succession. Center mass, center mass, throat. Matteo crumples, weapon clattering to the ground. The visceral satisfaction is immediate but hollow as Marco remains motionless on the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

I don’t see his brother coming from my blind side until it’s almost too late. A crushing impact between my shoulder blades drives me to my knees. Something cracks, ribs giving way under the force. My weapon skitters across the concrete floor, beyond reach.

Copper floods my mouth.Internal damage, possibly lung involvement.The tactical part of my brain catalogs injuries automatically, even as I try to regain my feet.

Too slow. Vincent looms above me, tactical knife raised for a killing stroke. In that crystalline moment of clarity, I recognize my failure.After decades of perfect strategy, I’m going to die because I let emotion cloud judgment. Marco would be disappointed.

Vincent laughs hysterically. “Look who’s got the knife now, motherfucker!” The blade descends in what feels like slow motion.

Then impossibly, Lea emerges from cover, my fallen weapon gripped in both hands. Her stance is all wrong, clearly unpracticed, but her determination is absolute. The first shot catches Vincent in the shoulder, spinning him away from me. The second finds his throat with devastating accuracy.

The sound he makes as he falls is grotesque, wet, gurgling and final. He collapses in stages, first to his knees, then forward onto the concrete. Arterial blood pulses in diminishing spurts from the ruined neck.

Lea stands frozen, the gun still extended, eyes wide with shock. The weapon trembles in her grip as the reality of what she’s done registers on her face.

I struggle to my feet, pain now screaming through every nerve ending. The adrenaline buffer is fading, allowing full awareness of my injuries to surface. “Lea,” I gasp, but she doesn’t respond, transfixed by the dying man at her feet.

Distant sounds of movement snap me back to tactical awareness. We’re not clear yet. More of Moretti’s men are approaching, drawn by the gunfire.

I grasp Lea’s arm firmly, the contact breaking her paralysis. “We need to move. Now.”

Her eyes finally focus on me, pupils dilated with shock and residual adrenaline. I pry my weapon from her unresisting fingers, checking the magazine. Three rounds remaining. Not ideal, but workable.

Moving hurts. Each breath sends shards of pain through my chest. Definitely broken ribs. Blood soaks my shirt on two sides now, the shoulder wound deeper than I initially assessed. But Marco’s body lies just meters away. Surrender isn’t an option.

“This way,” I direct, leading Lea toward a service passage concealed behind what appears to be a maintenance panel. Few know of these hidden routes, a security feature I insisted on when renovating the building. Now, that paranoia might save our lives.

The narrow passage is designed for maintenance access, barely wide enough for two people. The air here is stale, thick with the smell of dust and machinery oil. I navigate by memory and touch, each step a negotiation with increasing pain. Twice I’m forced to stop, leaning against the wall as vision blurs and darkness threatens at the edges of consciousness.

Lea supports me without being asked, her slim shoulder braced under my arm, taking weight I can no longer fully bear. The shock of her first kill seems contained by the immediate need for survival.That breakdown will come later, if we survive long enough to allow it.

After what feels like an eternity of painful progress, we reach the concealed safe room. I press my palm against a seemingly solid wall section, revealing a biometric scanner hidden within the paneling. A soft click, and a door swings inward to reveal a small space equipped with surveillance monitors, weapons, medical supplies, and basic provisions. The air inside is cool, sterile, smelling faintly of antiseptic.

My legs finally surrender as we cross the threshold. I collapse into a chair, each breath a stabbing reminder of damaged ribs and continuing blood loss.

“Lock the door,” I instruct, voice rough with pain. “The code is 3-9-8-4.”

Lea’s fingers tremble as she automatically enters the sequence. She turns back, her face ashen. Abstract patterns of blood, not her own, stain her clothes.

“Marco’s dead,” she states flatly, as if saying it aloud might make it less real.

I nod once, sharply. The grief is a separate wound, deeper than the physical ones bleeding through my clothing. Marco has been my constant for fifteen years, the one person who knew every aspect of my operation, who could anticipate my needs before I voiced them. His loss is more than personal; it’s a strategic catastrophe.

But grief is a luxury I cannot afford right now. Survival first. Then vengeance.

“Check the monitors,” I direct. “Are they still in the building?”

Lea moves to the surveillance station, fingers leaving smudges of blood on the controls as she cycles through camera feeds. “I see three men searching the main floor,” she reports with surprising steadiness. “Two more at the exits.”

Five hostiles remaining. Against one wounded defender and a civilian who’s never held a weapon until tonight. The tactical situation is untenable.

I assess our options. I’m losing blood from two wounds. My broken ribs compromise mobility and combat effectiveness. The safe room is secure but ultimately a dead end as we can’t remain here indefinitely.

For perhaps the first time in my adult life, I face a scenario without a clear strategic advantage.

“My phone,” I say, the decision forming as I speak. “Call Alessandro.”

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