Page 56 of His Savage Ruin
The door crashes open and Enzo storms through with Rafael half a step behind, and I've never been so glad to see those bastards in my life.
Rafael lies down, suppressing fire toward the windows—muzzle flash strobing the room. Enzo barks into his radio and I hear boots thundering up the stairwell. More of our men breaching. The whole building's about to light up.
I lean out and fire three rounds at the leftmost shooter silhouetted against the skyline. He jerks back and vanishes. Can't tell if I hit him or if he's repositioning.
The gunfire intensifies for a moment—Rafael drops the first shooter with two rounds center mass and the man crashes through what's left of the window frame, his scream cutting off abruptly when he hits the street fifteen floors below. Enzo takes the second with a headshot so clean the sniper just slumps behind his rifle like he's sleeping.
Then fire tears across my bicep.
It's not a punch or an impact—it's more like someone pressed a brand against my skin, hot metal searing through cloth and flesh in a line that burns worse than anything I've felt in years.I look down and watch my sleeve darken.Blood spreading through expensive fabric in a bloom that looks black in the dim light filtering through gunsmoke.
Just a graze, maybe two inches long, but two inches to the left and it would've taken my head clean off my shoulders.
The pain tries to drag my focus away—sharp and insistent, radiating from elbow to shoulder in waves that make my vision blur at the edges—but I shove it down and lock it in the samemental box where I keep every other wound that should've killed me. Pain is just information, nothing more. The third shooter vanishes into the New York skyline. Smart enough to know when the job's failed.
Then silence. Sudden and somehow worse than the chaos. My ears ring with a high-pitched whine that makes everything feel muffled, distant.
I can smell gunpowder burning the back of my throat. Shattered glass crunching under my boots as I push myself up. I taste copper and spit red onto the ruined carpet.
My arm throbs with each heartbeat and my sleeve's soaked through now, blood running down to my wrist and dripping off my fingers onto the floor. But I'm on my feet before Enzo finishes clearing the room.
The suite looks like a warzone—upholstery shredded with stuffing drifting through the air like snow, wall paneling splintered and hanging loose, brass fixtures bent and broken. Glass everywhere, catching the orange sunset bleeding through the destroyed windows. The whiskey bottle Emilio poured from lies shattered on the floor, alcohol mixing with blood.
Emilio straightens from behind the table and brushes glass from his jacket like it's lint. Not a scratch on him. Not even breathing hard.
"Unfortunate," he says, smooth as ever. Like we're discussing a delayed flight. "It seems someone wants you dead."
I step out from behind the couch. My Beretta hangs loose in my grip and I don't take my eyes off his face. My arm's screaming but I won't let it show. Won't give him the satisfaction.
"Someone had excellent intel about this meeting," I say. My voice comes out low, sharp.
"And you shouldn’t have had men with you but… These things happen in our business." He spreads his hands like the blood and glass are nothing more than spilled wine. "Too many enemies, not enough trust. You know how it is."
Enzo shifts beside me, weapon still raised, tracking Emilio while Rafael scans the windows, jaw tight, ready for a second wave. They're waiting for my order—end it now, put a bullet in Emilio's skull and bury his empire with him.
My finger tightens on the trigger. It would be so easy. Justice for my father. Revenge for this betrayal. One shot and the war ends.
But easy isn't smart. Emilio didn't come alone—his men are somewhere in this building, waiting. We'd never make it out. And more importantly, killing him here means open war with every family he's allied with. A war we're not ready for.
I lower my weapon.
"This isn't over," Emilio says, reading my decision in the set of my shoulders. His smile returns, too smooth, too practiced. Hethinks he's still in control and this attempted murder is just another negotiation tactic.
I walk to the threshold where jagged glass frames the New York skyline. Sunset bleeds orange and red across the city, beautiful and violent. My arm throbs with each heartbeat, blood loss making the world swim slightly at the edges.
Behind me, Emilio calls out. "The offer stands, Matteo. Ten figures now. Think of what you could build with that kind of capital."
The number would have impressed me five years ago, maybe even tempted me, but Emilio has no idea how much the Romano empire has grown in the years since my father died—no idea that the Eastern European connections and the tech investments and the legitimate businesses I've built have already put me past him in raw wealth. I glance over my shoulder once. He's already pouring himself another drink, steady-handed, like he didn't just orchestrate my assassination. Like this is all still just business. "Keep your money, Emilio," I say. My voice carries across the wreckage, steady despite the pain radiating through my arm. "We both know you can't afford what she's worth."
His smile falters. Just for a second. Just enough.
"This isn't over," he says.
"No," I agree, my hand tightening around the Beretta. "It isn't."
Enzo takes point as we move toward the elevator, and Rafael covers our rear with his weapon still drawn. We move through the corridor like we're expecting another ambush at any second because we probably should be expecting exactly that.
As we reach the lobby, chaos has already erupted throughout the hotel—guests stream toward the exits in panicked clusters, some still in their business suits clutching briefcases, others in workout clothes from the hotel gym, all of them wide-eyed and moving fast. The front desk staff have abandoned their posts, and I can see hotel security trying to establish some kind of perimeter near the main entrance but they're overwhelmed by the sheer number of people trying to evacuate at once.
