Page 136 of Pietro
"Clear right!"
We pour through the breach, a tide of black tactical gear and violence. The air is thick with cordite and screams. Above,the chatter of automatic fire is a death rattle. Connor's men are earning their keep. "Contact!" Marco's rifle barks. Concrete chips near my head, the whine of a ricochet too close. I don't flinch. There's no fear. Only a destination.
I pivot around a container, catch two of Declan's soldiers trying to flank. The Beretta jumps in my hand—controlled pairs, textbook execution. They crumple, blood spreading across dirty concrete.
"Basement access, northwest corner!" Russo's voice cuts through the chaos. "Metal door, single guard!"
I move before the words finish, boots pounding across oil-stained floor. The guard sees me coming, fumbles for his weapon. Too slow. My knife opens his throat before he can scream. He drops, gurgling, hands trying to hold in what's already gone.
The door's locked. Of course it is.
"Breaching charge!" Liam appears at my shoulder.
Gunfire intensifies behind us. Someone screams. More glass shatters. Smoke thickens, making shadows dance.
"Hurry up!" I snap, even though Liam's hands work with practiced efficiency.
"Ten seconds!" He backs away, pulling me with him.
Those ten seconds stretch like hours. Each heartbeat hammers against my ribs. Each breath tastes of cordite and blood. Somewhere below us, Nora waits. Hurt. Captive. But alive.
She has to be alive.
The charge blows the door off its hinges. I'm through before the smoke clears, rifle light cutting through darkness. Wooden stairs descend into black. The smell hits immediately—mold, piss, fear.
And blood. Fresh blood.
"Pietro, wait—" Liam starts, but I'm already moving.
The stairs groan under my weight. Concrete walls close in, painted with decades of water damage and decay. A single bulb flickers at the bottom, casting sick yellow light.
I hear her before I see her.
"—told you he'd come." Her voice, cracked and raw but defiant. "Told you?—"
The sound of the slap is a physical blow. It travels up the stairs and detonates inside my skull. A white-hot spike of rage obliterates everything—the plan, the soldiers, the noise. There is only the sound of her pain and the man who caused it. I don't descend the last five steps, I fall, landing in a crouch at the bottom, rifle already shouldering. And I see her.
Nora. Chained. A canvas of bruises and blood. Her face is a ruin, one eye swollen shut. Her right hand...fuck. The angle of her fingers is wrong, a mangled horror that sends bile into my throat. But her good eye finds mine. And in that one defiant point of light, she’s still there. Still fighting.
Declan stands behind her, pistol pressed to her temple. His hands shake. Sweat stains his expensive shirt. He looks nothing like the collected killer who took her three days ago.
"Drop the weapon, Sartori."
I keep the rifle trained on his head. At this distance, I could paint the wall with his brains before his finger twitches. But the barrel against Nora's skull changes the math.
Declan's breathing too fast, pupils dilated. The gunfire upstairs has stopped. His men are dead. He knows it.
"Let her go, Declan," All my rage is packed into a single, cold point aimed at his heart. "You're already dead. You just haven't hit the floor."
"Then maybe I take her with me." He presses the gun harder against her temple. She doesn't flinch.
"You could try," I say, the words a promise. "But for every bruise on her face, I'll take a piece of you. For every brokenfinger, I'll take a limb. I will keep you alive long enough to regret being born."
"You're all talk, Sartori. Just like your brother was before?—"
The rifle shot cuts him off mid-sentence.
Declan's shoulder explodes in red. His gun flies across the room as he staggers back, screaming.
