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That shuts them up.

Gabi exhales smoke, his gaze narrowing. “You want war?”

“I want it finished.” My voice stays dead calm. Only those who know me well would sense the anger beneath.

“The Volkovs, the Creepers, everyone Vincent used as pawns, they all need to burn. They took shots at us. They helped him hide. They came after my wife.” That word tastes bitter now. “If I don’t end what they started, we’ll look weak forever.”

I need blood to drown out her face. Need violence to fill the void she left.

They all see the line I’ve crossed, the one they built careers pretending didn’t exist. They see the beast they helped create slipping its leash.

So, I offer them a way out. “If I fail, you can disown me. Say I went rogue. Let me be the ghost that bleeds for your peace.”

Unease crawls through the room. Gabi finally offers a slow, reluctant nod. He knows I mean this.

Outside, drizzle creates silver lines on the asphalt, reflecting the bright lights. Through the limo window, I glimpse a strange figure with eyes of ice and the shadow of sadness on his jaw. The sort of man Sophia believed she could transform.

Marco draws up next to me, his coat collar popped against the cold. “If you keep going like this, you’ll incinerate yourself along with them.”

“That’s exactly the point.”

He shakes his head, whispering in Italian that I was a better man when she was with me.

Perhaps I was. That truth doesn’t matter anymore.

I remember her weak, playful voice saying, “You’re not just violence, Enzo.” Maybe not. But the violence drowns everything else out.

I shut the lighter with a snap and chamber a round. Then another. “No more hesitation.”

The second hit takes place near the docks, at midnight.

Shipping containers tower around us like steel coffins. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in sickly orange.

My team keeps to the shadows. Six men, weapons drawn, silent as death.

I signal to my left flank with two fingers.

Marco and Gio peel off, disappearing behind a container stack.

The first guard leans against a crane, his cigarette glowing. He never sees Marco coming. Marco fires a suppressed shot that whistles through the air in a soft cough. The guard crumples, his cigarette still burning as it hits the concrete beside him.

It’s an efficient kill, exactly how I like my problems to end, but apparently not quiet enough because the second guard turns. When his gaze stumbles on his newly deceased partner, his eyes widen, and his mouth opens to shout.

I press the trigger, and the bullet punches through his throat. He goes down gurgling, his hands clutching the fatal wound.

Then chaos erupts.

Gunfire explodes from inside the warehouse. My pulse locks into a hard, steady rhythm, my vision narrows, and my breathing slows. This is the part where everything else shuts off.

It’s me and a sudden realization that I have to kill or be killed.

Muzzle flashes strobe the darkness, bullets ricocheting off metal. Sparks fly, concrete spitting chips where rounds bite in.

As my enemies return fire, my men join me.

I push through the dropping bodies with mechanical efficiency, not willing to waste any motion. Each pull of the trigger is clean, precise like a surgeon’s knife. The difference is surgeons save lives, and I just decide whose end comes first.

One soldier, probably not even twenty yet, discards his gun, puts his hands up, and begs in Russian. His terror is too human, too familiar.