The jet cuts through the clouds like it owns the damn sky. Sleek. Obnoxious. Like a predator too arrogant to believe it could ever be hunted. Its landing lights blaze against the night, slicing through darkness like it’s entitled to every inch of airspace.
Unbothered.
Unaware.
Perfect.
The tarmac below is quiet, but the energy is loud. My team is in place—eyes in the hangar, eyes at the exit points, weaponsready. Every role has been drilled. We’ve run this scenario on paper and in muscle memory until it became instinct.
Tripwires, angles, fallback points, kill zones. All accounted for. There are no second chances tonight. The Salvatores walked into our crosshairs the second they brought their asses to California. And they won’t be walking out. I shift just slightly, dialing in on the jet’s hatch. One breath in, one out.
Come on, you cocky bastards. Step into my world.
Typical Salvatore fashion—make a grand entrance, dare someone to react.
They’re about to regret that.
I shift slightly, my rifle steady, my heartbeat calm. I've done this before—too many times. But tonight feels different. Personal in a way I haven’t let myself admit out loud. This isn’t just about vengeance.
This is aboutfreedom.
Brick is crouched behind me. He signals with two fingers to my spotters below, confirming we are in position. Bellamy’s team is scattered like chess pieces—every angle covered, every backup plan in motion. Olivia’s voice comes through my earpiece, low and clear.
“Touchdown. Rear hatch opening. Three exiting—confirmation: Don Salvatore, Gianni Salvatore, and an unknown male. Drivers moving to position.”
“Copy,” I whisper.
My grip tightens around the trigger.
The black convoy rolls up like clockwork—first the lead SUV, then the car holding Don and his heir, and finally the tailing sedan. Their security team fanned out, barking orders in rapid Italian. They don’t notice us yet. That’s good. They won’t.
The Don steps out first. He’s thinner than I remember, older, but no less poisonous. Gianni follows—young, arrogant, cold-blooded. He thinks this city is his playground. He believes the name Salvatore still carries fear.
It doesn’t. Not tonight.
“On my mark,”I say quietly.
I track Don’s every step. His posture. His surroundings. He’s oblivious. Still convinced this city will kneel to his bloodline.
Three... two... one.
“Now.”
A flashbang launches first—Bellamy’s doing. It explodes midair with a deafening crack, flooding the tarmac with blinding white light. The Salvatore guards panic, reaching for weapons as confusion erupts.
Then come the shots.
Precise. Ruthless. Mine.
The first round hits the driver of the second car square in the neck—clutches his throat, but it’s no use, he’ll bleed out in minutes. The next catches a guard trying to rally. Bellamy’s team opens fire from their perch, bullets slicing through the air with deadly choreography.
Chaos breaks loose. Screams. Gunfire. Bodies dropping.
I switch targets—Don Salvatore retreating behind the open car door. I adjust and fire. The bullet clips his shoulder, sending him spinning backward with a howl.
“Bellamy, secure Gianni. I want him alive,” I bark into the comms.
“Copy.”
