Page 54 of Lord of the Dark

The first set of footsteps drew closer. The outline of a body became visible, weapon raised. I shifted my weight, bracing my left hand against the cool concrete pillar while tightening my grip on the Glock in my right. I held my breath and squeezed the trigger.

The shot was clean. The suppressor did its job, muffling the crack into a dull thud. A heavy impact followed as the man crumpled before he even realized he'd been hit. Four left.

The reaction to the loss was immediate. Spanish curses. Footsteps scrambling.

Giovanni was faster. A silhouette turned, weapon rising—another shot. Three.

One stepped into Giovanni's range. Soundless, he emerged from the shadows behind the man—a wet gurgle was all the warning before the body dropped.

Three down. We were in lethal form.

"Goddammit," one of the two remaining men swore, his Spanish thick with tension. "He's picking us off one by one."

They scrambled for cover. One of them made the fatal mistake of sprinting blindly past my pillar. I tracked him with the Glock, aimed for his leg to drop him, then put a second round through the back of his skull to silence him for good.

The last man fired wildly in our direction, bullets ricocheting off the pillars. I ducked instinctively, but a stray round grazed my left hip—a searing pain that made me grit my teeth.

"Fuck!" I hissed under my breath, pressing a hand to the wound. A graze, but deep enough to draw blood.

Giovanni used the man’s panic to end it with a single, precise shot.

The warehouse fell silent.

Adrenaline still surged through my veins.

Giovanni stood over the last body, checking the men with routine efficiency before nodding at me. "That’s it. Had enough adrenaline for one night?"

"Son of a bitch," I muttered, lifting my hand to press harder against my hip. Blood seeped through my fingers.

Giovanni smirked. "Not invincible, huh?"

"Shut the hell up," I growled, retrieving my mask and eyeing the lifeless bodies.

Giovanni moved beside me, his gaze drifting over the dead men. "Vargas always sends his best, doesn’t he?"

"Now he knows what that gets him." I leaned against one of the warehouse pillars, pulling up my shirt with a sharp inhale. The bullet had taken a decent chunk out of my hip. It burned likehell, the pain amplified by the adrenaline, and I knew I had to patch it up fast. Infections weren’t on my to-do list.

Giovanni returned with a first-aid kit from the back corner where we kept basic supplies. "Here," he said, tossing it to me with a smirk. "You gonna stitch yourself up, or should I do the honors?"

"Make sure the bodies disappear without a trace," I said, setting the kit down. "I’ve got this."

Shaking his head, he muttered something under his breath and moved toward the dead men. Meanwhile, I grabbed the disinfectant, pouring a generous amount over the wound. The clear liquid mixed with blood, and I clenched my jaw against the sting. With a sterile pad, I cleaned the area carefully, then packed it with gauze and secured it with tape—a makeshift pressure bandage. It would hold until I could get proper stitches.

He came back, flipped a crate over, and sat down beside me. His hands were still bloody from the cleanup, but he casually pulled a cigarette from his jacket and lit it.

"Not bad for someone who just got shot," he remarked, exhaling smoke.

I tossed the medical supplies back into the kit. "Ever heard of washing your hands?"

Giovanni took a drag and shrugged, that crooked grin playing on his lips. "Why? You gonna teach me the manners from your fancy dinner parties? Or you worried I’ll ruin the ambiance of this slaughterhouse?"

I leaned back, giving him a flat look. "I’m worried your filth’s gonna rub off on me."

"You’ll live." Smoke curled from his mouth even as he spoke. The man smoked so much it practically seeped from his pores like a chimney.

"Vargas’ men are operating in Miami like they’ve got a goddamn free pass," I said, testing the bandage. The pressuredressing held. "What the hell is Morales even doing in Colombia besides collecting a very generous paycheck?" What was the point of having that bastard on payroll if bullets were still flying at our heads?

He gave a casual shrug, though I was clearly testing his limits. "Morales is doing what he can, but Vargas has connections. Deep ones. Maybe it's time to give him more resources—or replace him."

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