Page 81 of Cage the Storm
The church looms ahead, a mausoleum dressed in stained glass and crumbling stone. Shadows pool in the broken archways, the air thick with the smell of dampness and mold. It’s silent, too silent.
Mateo signals. Move.
The front doors explode, wood splintering under the force of our entrance. Gunfire erupts instantly, erratic, panicked. The D’Angelo soldiers scramble, barking orders.
I raise my Glock and fire, precise and merciless. A bullet takes the first guard in the throat, and he drops without a sound. Another reaches for his rifle, too slow. My shot finds his ribs, tearing through flesh and bone, his body crumpling against the pew.
Chaos swallows the church.
I move through it, focused, unrelenting. My world narrows to one singular point.
Bria.
She’s strapped to a chair behind the altar, eyes wild with terror. The man behind her grips a pistol, pressing it against her temple as his gaze locks onto mine.
A mistake. His last.
Bria jerks, and her chair crashes to the floor. Good girl, she remembered the lesson I taught her all those years ago.
I’m already firing. The bullet tears through his skull, painting the wall behind him in crimson.
I push off the pillar, every breath a knife to my ribs. My boots slip on blood-slick tile as I stagger toward her. Bria’s chair is tipped, her body twisted awkwardly, but she’s breathing.
I drop to one knee, her breaths coming fast and uneven. My blade slices through her restraints, then the gag. “Bria, are you hurt?” My voice trembles, “Can you stand?”
Her shaky fingers clutch my arm. “I don’t know.” Her grip tightens. “Just don’t let go.”
Mateo’s voice shouts over the commotion, gunfire still raging. More men spill from the sanctuary, weapons raised.
I rise, positioning myself between Bria and the rebellion, my gun secure, my pulse unforgiving. Her fingers clutch my waist from behind, trembling but firm. I won’t let them touch her.
The D’Angelo men falter, glancing at the ones who have already turned, who now fight at my side, their loyalties stripped by betrayal. Enzo steps forward, and with that single move, the D’Angelo legacy fractures forever. The ones still holding their ground? The ones clinging to a sinking empire? They should run. But they won’t get too far.
I tilt my head, my voice echoing in the church. “You sold yourself to the wrong devil.” And then one by one, my men and I obliterate them.
Bria clings to my waist, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Her body trembles against mine. “I’m not leaving you,” she whispers. Her eyes flick to the carnage—to the bodies, the blood, the smoke curling in the cold air—and she shudders, chest hitching like she might be sick.
I turn, just enough to press my palm to her cheek, forcing her gaze to mine. “You’re safe now,topolina.Listen to me.” Her fingers tighten on my sleeve.
“I’m not safe if we’re still here,” she murmurs, voice cracking. I exhale slowly, calming her and steadying myself.
“You will be. Mateo’s sending you back with Massimo and Ronan. They’ll die before they let anyone touch you again.” She shakes her head, but I don’t give her the chance to argue. I grip her jaw, gentle but firm.
“I need you alive, Bria. I need you far away from what happens next. You’ve already seen too much.” Her lip trembles, but she understands. I press a kiss to her temple, then pull away, turning to Massimo and Ronan.
“Get her to the safe house. And whatever you do, do not stop.” They secure Bria between them before leading her toward the waiting car. I watch until the taillights vanish into the night. Then I turn to Mateo. His expression, lifeless.
“Where’s D’Angelo?”
Enzo steps forward, phone in hand. “The isolated slaughterhouse off Route 9. They’re waiting for word you’re dead.”
I load a fresh clip into my Glock. “They won’t get it.”
Mateo’s smile is sardonic. “No bullets?”
I shake my head. “No bullets.”
Engines growl as a line of blacked-out SUVs rumbles through the empty streets. Mateo drives, fingers fixed on the wheel; his expression is composed. The others follow, headlights slicing through the blackness of night, weapons loaded, minds locked on the war ahead.
