Page 162 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
One of ours gets clipped and pulled back before he can fall.
Blood sprays the wall.
"Cover!" Marco barks.
We roll into the split.
I count five shooters through the slats of the wooden doors ahead, all Il Sangue Nero.
One of them has a modified AR.
The rest carry what look like mismatched imports—old Balkan rifles, secondhand gear.
But their aim is trained.
They’re waiting for us.
I pull a smoke grenade from my belt, yank the pin, and hurl it across the floor.
It bounces once, hissing.
"Wait for it."
The smoke fills the room fast.
I slip through first, low to the ground.
Two on the left.
One clipped in the calf, the other turns just in time to see his teeth scatter.
My shoulder slams into a third who shouts in a dialect I don’t recognize.
His rifle clatters.
I take him with a knee to the throat and a round through the chest.
The last two retreat into the cloister.
I hear the signal pop in the distance—another burst of fire from the opposite side.
Marco’s group is pushing from the north.
We converge on the center courtyard.
That’s when the real gunfight begins.
Il Sangue Nero’s core defense holds the circle.
Six shooters behind stone cover, another four spread through the upper balconies with long-range sights.
They’re coordinated.
This is not just a rogue faction.
This is someone’s army.
I count three steps before I sprint, roll behind a broken fountain, and fire twice through the ribs of a shooter crouched near the iron brazier.
