When this is over, I’ll take her home, make love to her until the world fades, and tell her over and over that she’s my everything, that I’ll never doubt her again. For now, I watch, my breath shallow, every muscle coiled, ready to move if she needs me.
I watch her take slow, deliberate steps toward the entrance, her head held high, every movement controlled, yet beneath it, I can sense a taut thread of anxiety. My fingers drum against the wheel, my eyes tracking her through the windshield, searching for any sign of danger.
The bar is quiet, a calm that feels unnatural, and my instincts flare in warning. I see her pause at the threshold, glancing over her shoulder toward the car, a fleeting moment of doubt in her gaze. My chest tightens, and I want to scream that she is not alone, that I am here, that she belongs to me, yet I remain where I am, anchored with my men, forcing my mind to the task of observation.
She crosses the threshold, and although the bar is dimly lit, I watch her settle at a table, the neon glow casting her in sharp relief against the dim interior.
No sign of Vittorio. I check in with my men over the radio, their voices low, reporting no trace of his crew either.
My eyes stay on Liliana, her hands resting on her belly, protective and calm, but I know her heart must be pounding. A barman approaches, offering a drink, and she nods, politely refusing, her grace unshaken even here.
Then he extends a paper, and my pulse spikes, my hand twitching toward the door. I force myself to stay put; it’s just a note, not a weapon.
She takes it, her head lowering to read, and then she stands up and starts moving to a different section of the bar. Panic flickers across her face, raw and sharp, and my blood runs cold. I quickly connect to Matteo, one of my men stationed inside the bar, and he informs me that Liliana has switched tables to a more secluded one, but Vittorio is still nowhere in sight.
Not up to five minutes after my conversation with Matteo, his voice comes through the audio feed again.
“Boss, your wife went to the ladies' about five minutes ago, and she is still not out, but her purse is still on the table.”
Something’s wrong.
I bark into the radio, “All units move in now!”
Just then, my phone rings, and I instantly know who it is.
Vittorio’s voice slithers through, cold and mocking. “You were stupid to bring your men, Giovanni, after I told her to come alone. Stupider still to let her walk in here. Did you think I wouldn’t expect her to be wired?”
A shrill scream cuts through—Liliana’s—and my blood boils, rage blinding me. “Where is she?” I thunder, my voice shaking the air. “If you’ve touched her, I’ll make you pay, Vittorio. I’ll tear you apart.”
He laughs, a sound that curdles my soul. “Your pathetic excuse of a protection device is by the staff entrance door. Now the game begins,” he says, and the call ends, leaving a void that fuels my fury.
I hand the phone to whoever is beside me, eyes sweeping the room with lethal precision. The air tastes metallic, charged with danger, and I know without hesitation that I have messed up. I have allowed my pregnant wife to be taken right under my nose. I have failed to protect her, and my children.
Before I can move, a shot rings out, one of Vittorio’s men firing from the corner, and chaos erupts. No doubt trying to create a distraction for Vittorio to get away.
Patrons scream, diving under tables or sprinting for the exits, their footsteps a frantic drumbeat. I raise my gun, my vision narrowing, and fire at the shooter, the bullet catching his shoulder, blood blooming as he collapses.
My men engage, their shots precise, but Vittorio’s crew is ready, returning fire from behind the bar, from the shadowed booths. Glass shatters, bottles exploding in a spray of liquor and shards, the air thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder.
Tomasso ducks, firing at a man lunging from the side, his bullet striking true, the body hitting the floor with a dull thud.
I move forward, my gun steady, taking down another of Vittorio’s men, his chest bursting red as he falls. Blood pools on the polished wood, the bar a battlefield, and I weave through the chaos, my heart screaming for Liliana.
A man swings at one of mine, and I intercept, disarming him, striking with calculated force. Another raises his weapon, and I fire before his finger completes the motion. I am everywhere and nowhere, a tempest of precise destruction. The sound is deafening, yet beneath it, I hear her voice in my head, the echo of her fear driving me forward.
One of my men grunts as a bullet grazes his arm, but he keeps firing, his face grim. Another of Vittorio’s men charges, knife gleaming, and I shoot, the bullet tearing through his throat, blood spraying as he crumples.
Another fires from behind a counter. I dive low, returning fire, and he collapses in a heap. The room is chaos, terror palpable. Each shot, each movement, is precise. I cannot allow hesitation, not now.
Finally, only one remains standing, but he's bleeding profusely, swaying on his feet.
I seize him by the throat, my fingers digging into his flesh, his blood gurgling as I slam him against the wall. His eyes are glassy, his breath ragged, but I don’t care.
“Where’s Vittorio? Where did he take my wife?” I snarl, shaking him, my hand cracking across his face.
He tries to speak, blood bubbling at his lips, but no words come, only a choking gasp.
I slap him again, my voice a roar. “Tell me, or I’ll end you!”
