23
SALVATORE
The phone cuts through the silence at four in the morning. I reach for it in the darkness, already knowing this call will drag me from my bed and into the streets. The voice on the other end belongs to Marco, one of my lieutenants at the southern docks. He's shouting over the sound of gunfire, his words fractured by the chaos around him.
"Boss, they're everywhere. Costa men, maybe twelve of them. They came from the water, hit us from three sides. We're pinned down behind the main warehouse."
The line crackles with static and the distant pop of automatic weapons. I'm already moving, pulling on clothes in the dark, my mind calculating distances and response times. The harbor is twenty minutes away at this hour, but Bruno can make it in fifteen if he runs every red light between here and the docks.
"How many of ours?" I ask, pressing the phone to my ear as I grab my holster from the nightstand.
"Five on the ground, maybe six. Two took rounds but they're still moving. Gino's bleeding bad."
Another burst of gunfire echoes through the speaker. Marco's voice drops to a whisper. "They torched the south truck. The whole thing went up."
I end the call without another word and dial Bruno. He answers on the first ring, already awake, already moving. This is how we survive—by sleeping with one eye open and expecting the worst at any hour.
The streets of Naples blur past the windows as Bruno pushes the car through the empty predawn roads. The city sleeps around us, unaware that blood is being spilled at the harbor. I check my weapon in the passenger seat, the familiar motion of chambering a round offering its own cold comfort. The Beretta feels solid in my hands, an extension of my will.
The harbor comes into view as we round the final corner. Muzzle flashes crack the darkness ahead, brief bursts of light that illuminate the chaos. One of our trucks burns in the distance, orange flames licking at the sky. The acrid smells of gunpowder and burning fuel fill the air as we approach the perimeter.
Bruno pulls up behind a row of shipping containers, the car's engine still running. I'm out before we come to a complete stop, my feet hitting the pavement as the sound of gunfire grows louder. The night is alive with violence, the air thick with smoke and the metallic taste of blood.
I move through the shadows between the containers, my weapon drawn, following the sound of voices and the flash of guns. Three of my men crouch behind cover near the main warehouse, their faces tight with concentration. Marco sees me first, relief flickering across his features.
"South side," he says, pointing toward a cluster of containers where muzzle flashes continue to strobe. "Six of them, maybe seven. They're using the cargo as cover."
I nod and signal for the others to follow. We move as a unit, staying low, using the maze of containers to our advantage. The Costa men are professionals, but they're fighting on my territory now. Every inch of this harbor belongs to me.
The first one I see is young, maybe twenty-five, his back pressed against a container as he reloads his rifle. I put two rounds in his chest before he can turn around. He drops without a sound, his weapon clattering to the concrete.
The others react quickly, swinging their guns toward the sound, but we're already moving. Bruno appears from the left, his shotgun booming in the confined space. Another Costa soldier goes down, his body crumpling against the side of a container.
The remaining men try to retreat toward the water, but we have them surrounded now. They know it, and the desperation in their movements shows. One of them breaks cover, running toward the harbor's edge. I track him with my sights and fire once. He stumbles, clutching his shoulder, but keeps moving.
"Take him alive," I call out to Marco, who's already moving to intercept.
The rest of the Costa men don't last long. They're outnumbered and outgunned, caught in the open with nowhere to run. Within minutes, the harbor falls silent except for the crackling of flames from the burning truck and the distant sound of sirens growing closer.
The Costa soldier who tried to escape is on the ground now, Marco's boot on his back. Blood seeps through his shirt where my bullet found its mark. He's young, maybe even younger than the first one I killed. His face is pale with shock and pain.
I walk over to where he lies, my weapon still in my hand. The smell of gunpowder clings to my clothes, mixing with the salt air from the harbor. This boy is someone's son, someone's brother. In another life, he might have been one of mine.
"What's your name?" I ask, crouching down beside him.
He looks up at me with eyes full of defiance and fear. "Go to hell."
I press the barrel of my gun against his knee, the metal cold against his skin. "I'll ask again. What's your name?"
"Paolo," he gasps, the word torn from his throat. "Paolo Ferrante."
"Well, Paolo Ferrante, you're going to deliver a message for me."
I pull the trigger. The sound echoes across the harbor, mixing with his screams as the bullet shatters his kneecap. He writhes on the ground, clutching his leg, his face contorted with pain.
"Tell your boss that this is what happens when he sends boys to do a man's job," I say, standing up. "Tell him that for every truck he burns, I'll burn three of his. Every man he kills, I'll kill five of his."
Paolo's screams have faded to whimpers now. The blood from his knee spreads across the concrete, dark and wet in the harbor lights. I turn away from him and the kidney-shaped dark pool forming under his leg.
