Page 42 of Vows Made in Silence
“We’ve spotted two child-sized heat signatures in the northeast quadrant. One is definitely Daniel. The other… could be a decoy. Or worse.”
He listens, nodding. “Exactly. It’s too clean. No scrambling. No chaos. They’re ready for us. It’s a trap, Luca.
Luca’s gaze sharpens as he looks to Turk, voice a controlled snarl of war-bred precision.
“Mobilize now. We strike fast, surgical. No chaos, no mercy. They’re setting the stage for a massacre—we flip the script. But be ready for bodies.”
He lowers the phone, jaw like granite. “We breach in ten. And we don’t walk out without my boy.”
The moment Turk’s voice cuts through the line, my blood turns cold.
Two child-sized heat signatures.
They think they’re clever. They think they can rattle me. And maybe they have—just not the way they wanted.
I’ve played this game before. Misdirection. Doubles. Bait. But this time, they used my child.
I toss the burner and signal to the team. "We go now."
Sal’s already at the wheel. Beside him, two of our best men, armed and locked in. The SUV hums beneath us as we barrel down the Strip like a war machine.
I stare out the window as the neon lights of Vegas blur. All the power I’ve amassed, the blood I’ve spilled, none of it matters if I lose him. If I lose her or worse both of them.
"They won’t survive this," I mutter.
Sal doesn’t look away from the road. "Good. Because neither will we, if we fail."
The warehouse comes into view—just a speck in the distance. But I can already see it burning in my mind.
Tonight, I become the monster they made me to be.
—
We arrived two minutes early.
The convoy is already locked in—a silent wall of blacked-out SUVs idling like panthers in the dark, engines low and ready, lights off, but every weapon primed for war. No one speaks. No one moves without purpose.
My soldiers meet me by the side of the lead truck, their movements sharp, disciplined. Flak vests strapped tight, weapons checked without a word. Their eyes meet mine—hard, unwavering.
They don’t ask for orders. They already know.
Loyalty doesn’t need commands. It needs blood.
“Thermals are holding. The small signature hasn’t moved. Could be sedation,” he says.
“Or fear,” I reply.
Turk doesn’t argue. “Roselli’s crew was spotted circling two blocks out. We think Gallo invited an audience.”
Perfect. Let them all watch.
“Positions?” I ask.
“North entrance is unguarded, but we’re assuming it’s rigged. Snipers on the east and west. Entry team breaching from the south on your mark.”
I scan the building. The place is old—once a textile plant, now gutted and converted into a fortress. Shadows shift behind broken windows. I can feel the tension coil around my spine.
I check the mag in my pistol. Full. Then I chamber a second round into my rifle.
