Page 2 of Last Hand

If anything happens to her—or to our child—God help whoever’s responsible because there won’t be enough pieces of them left to bury.

The gates come into view up ahead, looming tall and wrought iron against the darkening sky. Milo doesn’t slow down; instead, he guns it, slamming through with a deafening crash that sends one side of the gate swinging wildly off its hinges. Gravelsprays beneath the tires as we tear up the driveway toward the mansion.

My heart stops when I see them—two of my men lying crumpled by the gate like discarded dolls—blood pools beneath their bodies, staining the gravel black in the fading light.

“Fuck,” Milo mutters under his breath as he brings the car to an abrupt halt near the front steps.

Before it even fully stops moving, I’m out—my Glock already drawn and ready. As I sprint toward the front door, my boots pound against the stone steps, taking them three at a time. The rage inside me isn’t just burning anymore, it’s alive, clawing at my chest like a rabid animal desperate for release.

The door is ajar, so I push it open with my foot, gun leading the way as I step inside.

The first thing that hits me is the smell, coppery and thick enough to coat my tongue with every breath. Blood. It’s everywhere: smeared across the pristine white marble floors in streaks and handprints, smear marks like a body was dragged through the dead. I follow the trail, stepping over the prone forms of my men. I don’t stop to check pulses. I already know they are dead when I hear screaming,

“Milo!” I shout over my shoulder as we take off toward the sound together.

We round the corner into chaos: bodies on the floor, overturned furniture, bullet holes peppering walls and cabinets. Rocco lies near the back stairs, his hand pressing against a gut wound. Blood seeps through his fingers in rhythmic pulses that match his labored breathing.

“Rocco!” I drop to my knees beside him without hesitation, holstering my gun so I can assess the damage. “What happened? Where is she?”

He groans weakly and manages to lift his head enough to look at me. “They… Russians…” His voice is barely above a choked whisper. “Caught us off guard… Took her…”

He groans, gripping my forearm. “They knew the layout. The timing. They were let in.”

Maria’s sobbing draws my attention next.

She sits huddled in one corner of the room, clutching something close to her chest.

I rise slowly and approach her despite every instinct screaming at me to hurry, to move, to do something. Her hands tremble violently as she holds out what she found.

Fallon’s phone.

The screen is shattered, streaked with blood.

My gaze remains fixed on it, as though sheer willpower might piece the fragments back together—not just the screen, but time itself. As if staring hard enough can rewind the last few minutes and undo the chaos that’s left my world tilting off its axis—the distant sound of engines and tires screeching as vehicles race toward us. The sound grows louder, more insistent, and I know the authorities and my men are racing to get here.

“Help me get him up. We need to get him to the hospital,” I instruct Milo. Rocco slaps my hands away, and Maria rushes toward the front, knowing backup and an ambulance will be coming.

Help rushes in quickly, and I feel like a sitting duck as Dr. Stevens works on Milo, who refuses to go to the hospital.

Minutes later, Milo reappears from the back hallway, his steps purposeful. In his hand is a body cam device, its casing smeared with dirt and blood, ripped from one of the dead guards outside. The sight sends another wave of nausea rolling through me.

“I’m pulling the footage now,” he says, eyes scanning the small screen. He fast-forwards through flashes of movement; a car pulls up, and the window rolls down.

“Wait.” His finger hovers over the pause button before he presses it abruptly. “There.” His tone changes.

Dante.

The image freezes on a face I know all too well.

Dante.

My blood turns to ice instantly—a frigid wave that starts at my core and radiates outward until even my fingertips feel numb. My lips part slightly in shock, yet no sound escapes as I stare at his image on the screen.

Milo mutters under his breath, venom dripping from every syllable. “Merda! Shit.”

I don’t respond—not yet. Words feel insufficient for what’s twisting inside me right now: rage hot enough to burn and fear cold enough to freeze all at once. Instead, I watch as Dante leans casually out of the car window on screen, like he hasn’t just set this whole nightmare into motion, and speaks to the guard stationed at the gate.

The guard nods hesitantly before pressing the button to open the gate for him. When he turns back toward Dante’s car… Dante doesn’t hesitate. The gun appears almost lazily in his hand before a single shot rings out on-screen.

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