Page 83 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
A sharp whistle pierces the air, snapping me back to reality. Marco’s voice cuts through the smoke. “Luca! We’ve got more incoming from the east!”
I turn, pulling Valentina behind me as another wave of Rossi hitmen emerge from the shadows. My grip tightens around my gun, the rage from seeing her in danger fueling my every move.
Flashes of muzzle fire illuminate faces twisted in rage, fear, and cold determination. My men fight like devils, their loyalty etched into every swing of a blade and pull of a trigger. The Rossis are relentless, but they lack the discipline, the iron resolve of the Salvatore family.
I move through the chaos like a predator, every step calculated, every shot precise. A Rossi hitman lunges at me from the shadows, his knife gleaming. I duck, pivot, and drive my gun’s butt into his temple. He crumples before I put a bullet in his chest.
Another emerges, this one faster, aiming for Marco. I don’t hesitate. My shot tears through the night, and the man drops like a stone. Marco turns, his lips twitching in what might pass for a grin.
“Still saving my ass, I see,” he says, reloading his weapon.
“You’re too slow,” I reply, firing off another round.
The tide begins to turn. The Rossis are faltering, their formation breaking as we push forward. Valentina’s face flashes in my mind—her strength, her defiance, her unwavering resolve to stand by me. It fuels me, sharpens my focus.
Then I see him.
In the chaos, a figure emerges, one I recognize instantly—Giovanni Rossi, the family’s youngest son and their most ruthless tactician. He’s orchestrating the chaos, his commands cutting through the noise like a blade.
My target.
I move toward him, every step deliberate. He spots me, his lips curling into a sneer. The bastard thinks he’s won.
“Salvatore!” he shouts, his voice carrying over the din. “You can’t protect them forever. You’ll die here like your father should have.”
The words ignite something primal in me.
With a roar, I charge. His men close ranks, but it’s useless. I’m unstoppable. A bullet grazes my shoulder, pain blooming hot and sharp, but it doesn’t slow me down. I’m on him in seconds, my fist connecting with his jaw in a satisfying crack.
Giovanni stumbles, blood dripping from his mouth. “You think this ends with me?” he spits. “There will always be more.”
“Not for you.” I press the barrel of my gun to his temple.
He doesn’t beg. I respect him for that. But respect doesn’t stay my hand.
The shot rings out, final and absolute.
By dawn, the estate is silent. Smoke rises from the south lawn, bodies litter the ground, and the faint smell of charred wood lingers in the air. The Salvatore family has prevailed, but the cost was steep.
I stand on the steps of the mansion, Marco at my side. His face is drawn, exhaustion heavy in his features. “It’s over,” he says, his voice rough.
“Not yet,” I reply, my eyes sweeping the devastation. “We send a message. Every Rossi loyalist left breathing will know what happens when they come for my family.”
Marco nods grimly. “Consider it done.”
I turn, and there she is. Valentina, standing in the doorway, her face pale but resolute. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the chaos fades.
She steps forward, her chin held high. “What now?”
“Now?” I take her hand, pulling her close. “Now, we rebuild.”
Her gaze is steady, searching mine. “Together?”
“Always,” I say, the words a vow.
Valentina is at my side, her hand in mine as we stand before our men.
She’s no longer just my wife.
