Page 61 of Control

“Fire!” I growl, my voice like gravel.

The air turns into a war zone. My own gun roars in my hand, sending bullets straight into the chests of two of Leone’s men without a second thought. No hesitation. No mercy.

The bastard had to know it was coming.

The bullets start flying, a blur of noise and chaos. A bloodbath. My men move like ghosts, ducking, firing, never stopping. I take out another three with clean shots to their heads.

That’s what this life is, isn’t it? A constant balancing act between what you have to do and what you feel. And I don’t feel a damn thing anymore.

I duck behind a stack of wooden crates, my heart pounding as bullets ricochet off the walls around me. The fucking noise is deafening, but I’ve trained myself not to listen.

A scream rips through the air, and one of my men drops, blood pouring from his side. I grit my teeth, trying to focus. But then I catch movement. Fast. Almost too fast.

Leone.

The bastard’s slipping away.

“Shit,” I mutter, my pulse spiking as I push out of cover. I can’t let him get away. Not again.

I spot his car—a black piece of shit, the kind you’d think only a coward would drive. Within moments, he’s peeling out, speeding down the street like he’s trying to outrun his fate. But I won’t let him.

I get in my car, leaving Marco, my men, and Livia to take care of the remaining men, and the chase begins.

His car swerves around corners, tires screeching against the asphalt. I follow, closer and closer, slamming my foot down on the gas.

I’m not losing this time.

I cut the wheel hard, slamming my car into his. The crash rattles my teeth, but I don’t give a damn. I’m out of the car before the dust even settles.

Leone stumbles out of his car, looking like a fucking animal caught in a trap. He’s sweating, eyes wide, trying to act like he’s got control of the situation.

“Who would’ve thought I’d see the day you actually give two shits about someone else other than yourself?” he sneers, trying to mask the tremble in his voice with a forced laugh. But it’s a hollow thing, dead in his chest. His laugh doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s nothing but a sound to hide the panic gnawing at him. “Times sure have changed, haven’t they?”

Then he steps closer, his voice dripping with malice. “You’re lucky I wasn’t with my men that day, Remo. If I had been, I would’ve made sure to shoot the bitch myself.”

I don’t wait for him to finish. I’m already on him, my fist crashing into his face with all the fury I can muster. He stumbles back, but he doesn’t go down. No, he’s tougher than I thought. A goddamn cockroach, as I said.

His fist catches me in the lip. The pain is sharp, sudden, and fucking blinding. I taste blood, but it just makes me angrier.

I don’t fight like a man anymore. I fight like I’m already dead. Like there’s nothing left to lose.

He catches me with another uppercut, and I feel my lip split open. The blood’s warm on my skin, but I don’t give a shit. I’ll kill him with my bare hands if I have to.

We’re locked in this fucking dance, neither one of us giving an inch. His breath is ragged, and I can see the fear in his eyes now, but it doesn’t stop him from swinging. We’re both too far gone to stop. It’s the kind of fight that’s meant to end in one of us dead.

I get the upper hand for a second, my fist connecting with his ribs, but then I don’t see him pulling something from his hand, and he’s on me, stabbing me in the hand.

The pain’s instant, brutal. I feel the sharp edge sink into my flesh, and for a second, all I can do is breathe. He uses that opportunity to kick me in the face with his boots, sending me down to the ground.

I grit my teeth and push through it, trying to stand up. I’m losing so much blood.

“Fucking coward,” I growl through the pain.

He doesn’t respond because he’s too busy getting back in his car. He slams the door shut and floors it, peeling off into the night.

I don’t chase him. I can’t. My hands are too fucked up.

Marco pulls up beside me, his face grim. “You good, Boss?”

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