Adriana's POV
Sunset bled across the sky. Orange. Red. The color of endings.
Seventeen rounds.
I counted them again. Alessio's gun was heavy in my lap. Heavier than it looked. Heavier than the choice I was making.
The Buick's engine hummed. I was alone.
He said "mine." That means I don't die without permission.
But he also said "run." And I was completely done running.
I passed the compound on Fifth. His men were out there. Big cars. Bigger guns. Waiting for an order that was never coming. If I stopped, they'd lock me in a secure room and call him. Then he'd bleed out in that freezing basement trying to rush out and save me.
My choice.
I didn't stop.
The docks smelled heavily of salt, rust, and diesel fuel. Seagulls scattered in the twilight as my tires crunched over broken glass. Three black SUVs sat waiting. Just like the hospital. No plates. No mercy.
Moretti stood leaning against a rusted shipping container. The heavy doors were wide open, revealing pitch darkness inside. He was smiling. That was easily the worst part.
Don De Luca Sr. was on his knees in the gravel. Chained. His shirt was torn to shreds. His face was badly swollen, with one eye completely shut from a beating. But he was alive. Breathing.
Barely.
A man I'd only ever seen in old pictures. Alessio's father. The real Don. The sole reason this entire war had started six months ago.
"Where is he?" Moretti demanded. He didn't look at me; his eyes looked right past me, as if expecting Alessio to suddenly rise from the concrete shadows.
"Dead." The lie came out easy. Too easy. "You killed him at the hospital. I'm all that's left."
Moretti's smile widened into something grotesque. He walked over to Don De Luca Sr. and pressed the cold barrel of a gun directly to the old man's temple. The metal clicked as he pulled back the hammer.
"Then you're completely worthless to me, girl."
I took a sharp step forward, keeping my hands empty and my palms up. "He told me things."
That stopped him.
"He told me where the bodies are hidden," I said, keeping my voice from shaking. I was intensely proud of that. "All of them. The ones you've been desperately looking for since '98. The ones that will put you away for life."
Moretti's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "You're lying."
"Am I?" I tilted my head to the side, mimicking the exact gesture Alessio made right before he was about to kill. "He said you buried your brother in the concrete foundation of your first casino. Said you used his custom wedding ring to pay off the cement truck driver. Said the driver still keeps it in a box under his bed."
It was a total guess. A damn good one. Alessio had talked heavily in his sleep when the fever got bad in that basement. Names. Places. Sins.
Moretti's finger visibly twitched on the trigger.
I kept going, pushing my advantage. "Kill me, and you'll never find them. Kill him—" I nodded sharply at Don De Luca Sr. "—and I take it straight to the Feds myself. Trade me, and I'll tell you. One body at a time. For every single month he breathes."
A negotiation. Not begging.
Don De Luca Sr. raised his head, his one uninjured eye finding mine. He didn't look surprised. He looked... proud.
Moretti laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You've got a massive mouth on you. Just like him." He gestured aggressively with the gun. "Walk. Into the container. Slow."
I walked.
The inside of the shipping container reeked of old motor oil and dried blood. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling. A lone chair sat in the exact middle. Metal. Bolted down to the floor. Steel restraints lined the arms.
This was exactly where they were planning to keep me.
Moretti followed me inside, two of his men flanking behind him. The rest of his crew stayed outside with Don De Luca Sr.
"Chain her," Moretti ordered.
One of the men grabbed my arm roughly. I didn't fight him. Not yet.
Because Alessio had taught me one vital thing: Always let them think they've won. Until they are close enough to choke.
The man locked the first heavy cuff around my wrist. It was freezing cold. Tight.
"Other hand," Moretti barked.
I gave it to him, offering a small smile. "You really should have checked the car."
Moretti frowned, his brow furrowing. "What?"
"The Buick." I nodded backward toward the open container doors. Sunset was painting the docks a bloody red. "Alessio bled out over the passenger seat on the way here."
His face drained of color, turning stark white.
"You didn't actually think I'd come all this way alone, did you?" I leaned forward, stretching as far as the heavy chain would allow. "He's not dead, Moretti. He's just late. And he's very, very angry."
It was a total bluff. Well, half a bluff.
I hadn't called Alessio's men. I hadn't called anyone.
But I had done one thing before I left that basement. I'd taken the burner phone off the shelf—the one that had vibrated. And I'd texted a single word to the only number listed in its recent call log.
Docks.
I didn't know who was on the receiving end of that text. Alessio's man or Moretti's man—it hadn't mattered. Because if it belonged to Alessio's crew, they'd come flying. If it belonged to Moretti's crew, they'd think I was calling for backup and get sloppy. Nervous.
Either way, I win.
Moretti lunged forward, grabbing my jaw and squeezing hard. "You little—"
The first gunshot didn't come from him.
It echoed down from the roof of the warehouse across the yard. One of Moretti's guard men dropped instantly. No sound. No scream. Just a neat hole where his eyes used to be.
Moretti spun on his heel, dragging my chained body with him to use me as a human shield. "De Luca!" he screamed out into the open docks. "Show yourself!"
Nothing but silence answered.
Then a second shot cracked open the quiet. Another man went down.
Panic set in. The remaining Moretti soldier started firing blindly up into the rafters, wasting bullets on empty shadows.
Don De Luca Sr. was still on his knees outside. One of Alessio's men—I didn't know his name, recognizing only the distinct tattoo on his arm—dropped down from the fire escape. He cut the old man's chains in a single motion and dragged him behind a heavy shipping crate.
It was happening. It was actually happening.
Moretti's gun barrel was pressed hard against my temple now, his breath hot and frantic against my ear. "Call them off! Or I swear to God—"
"You first," I said.
And then I bit him.
Hard. Right on the meaty part of his hand between his thumb and index finger. Biting down with everything I had until I tasted his blood.
He screamed. The gun went off.
Right next to my ear. The deafening sound took the entire world away. All I heard was a sharp, high-pitched ringing. All I saw was blinding white.
But I was alive.
He wasn't holding me anymore.
I fell hard to my knees. The heavy metal chain yanked violently at my arm, and my shoulder screamed in agony.
When the white haze finally faded, I saw him.
Alessio.
He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be resting in that dark basement—bleeding, dying.
He was here.
He was leaning heavily against a shipping crate. His white shirt was completely soaked a deep red. Again. Always. The gun in his hand was shaking noticeably, but it was aimed straight at Moretti's head.
"Touch her," Alessio said, his voice a total ruin—sounding like broken glass and bourbon. "And your whole family dies tonight. I'll start with your sons. Then your wife. Then I'll burn your houses down. Just like you burned mine."
He forced himself to walk toward me. Each agonizing step looked like it should have killed him. He deliberately stepped right in front of me, placing his back to Moretti while facing me directly.
Full trust.
"No one trades what's mine, principessa."
I was absolutely furious. "You'll die! You can barely even stand!"
"Then we die together."
He dropped heavily to his knees right in front of me. His face was inches from mine. He cupped my cheek, his thumb gently wiping fresh blood from my lip. His or mine—it didn't matter.
"Mine," he growled out. "Now you're really mine."
He kissed me.
Not soft. Not sweet.
Bloody. Desperate. It felt like it was the absolute last thing he'd ever do on this earth—as if he were trying to crawl straight inside my lungs and stay there forever.
"Alessio—"
More gunfire erupted, raining down from the roofs and blasting from the ground. From everywhere.
Moretti was screaming frantic orders through the noise. Don De Luca Sr. was actively being dragged to cover, a fresh bullet wound blooming red on his white shirt. Like father, like son.
Suddenly, Moretti broke through the chaos. He lunged forward and grabbed me viciously by the hair, yanking me up. The heavy chain snapped painfully against my wrist. Pain. Bright. Hot.
He dragged my body in front of him, pressing the cold barrel of his gun to my temple. Again.
Alessio went completely still.
He dropped his weapon, letting it clatter uselessly onto the concrete floor. He raised his empty hands. Surrendering.
"Let her go," Alessio said. The Don was gone. The steel was gone. He was just a man begging. "Take me. Kill me. She's done nothing."
Moretti laughed, a spray of bloody spit landing on his chin. "Both of you die. But her first. So you can watch."
The gun clicked sharply against my skull.
I looked directly at Alessio.
No tears. No begging.
I offered a bloody, defiant smile. His.
"Two," I whispered to Moretti, calling back to the text message I sent. "You're catching up."
Click.