Page 84 of Cage the Storm
D’Angelo’s face goes sheet white. He lunges for the panic button under the workbench. The one I told him about two years ago, the arrogant prick. My knife leaves my hand before I decide to throw it.
The blade buries itself an inch from his fingers.
“Miss me?” I step into the haze of flickering fluorescents. Glock steady despite the pounding in my skull and the dried blood tearing at my back with every move. One bullet would end him, but for Luna, he’ll pay tenfold.
D’Angelo stumbles back, eyes wide. His phone hits the concrete with a crack. “N-no. You’re dead. I watched you?—”
“Bleed out? Choke on my own vomit? Drown?” I tap the barrel against his temple, savoring his flinch. “Takes more than a few scratches, broken fingers, and ribs to kill a king. Is that why you were waiting for Enzo’s call?”
A shuffle echoes from above.
Six of D’Angelo’s men lurk in the rafters above, rifles half-raised, frozen mid-reach. They’d been waiting for their boss’s signal, the one he’ll never give. My men pivot smoothly, weapons trained upward, a chorus of safeties clicking off.
“Tell your dogs to lower their guns,” I murmur, digging the Glock harder into D’Angelo’s skull. “Or I redecorate this warehouse with your brains.”
His throat works. “D-don’t shoot!Non sparare!”
One of the goons wavers, finger hovering over his trigger. Mateo doesn’t. A shot rips through the air.
The man drops, screaming, his kneecap blown to a pulp.
“Next one dies,” Mateo growls.
D’Angelo’s remaining men lower their weapons, hands trembling. Good. Rats always scatter when you burn their nest.
I lean closer, my breath a whisper. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.” My thumb caresses the Glock’s hammer. “But don’t worry. I won’t make that same mistake.”
His piss-soaked fear curdles the air. “Nico, wait—we can?—”
I catch a flicker of movement in the dimness. One of his men lunges for a discarded pistol. I don’t blink. I aim and pull the trigger.
The guy crumples, my bullet between his eyes, before his fingers graze the grip. Blood pools glossy-black underneath him.
D’Angelo tries reaching for my knife, and I press the smoking barrel against his head. “Too slow. Is anyone else feeling heroic?”
I point toward the switchblade on the floor. Mateo steps forward, picks it up, closes it, and hands it to me. I tuck it into my pocket without breaking eye contact.
“Didn’t think so.” I smile sardonically. “Now. Let’s discuss your retirement plan.”
The warehouse door creaks open with a groan, and D’Angelo’s head snaps toward the sound. He fucking whimpers. His traitorous men stand in the doorway, faces hard, weapons slung loose at their sides. No loyalty left in their eyes. Only revenge.
“Recognize them?” I tilt my head, watching the blood drain from D’Angelo’s face. “Even loyal men know when it’s time to replace a falling leader.”
One of the defectors, a wiry man named Vico, once D’Angelo’s right hand, steps forward. He tosses a bloodied pendant onto the concrete. The same one D’Angelo gifted his inner circle years ago, a symbol of “brotherhood.” It skids to a stop near his polished wing-tipped shoes.
“You…” D’Angelo chokes. “Traitors!” Vico’s lip curls.
“You sent my brother to die last week. Over a parking dispute.” He spits at D’Angelo’s feet. “Thefamigliais dead. Nico’s our Boss now.”
The words hang, sharp as a guillotine.
I step back, and D’Angelo staggers. His chest heaves, eyes darting back and forth between Mateo, me, and the defectors.
“You see?” I holster the Glock. “No empire. No allies. Just you, and the consequences of your indiscretions.”
His gaze flicks to the rafters, where his last loyal thugs stand paralyzed. They glance down at their comrades below, staring at them with icy detachment.
I turn to my newly appointed soldiers, waiting for my first command. “Clear the rafters.” My voice is ice. “Anyone left standing with his brand dies tonight.”
