Page 42 of Ruined Through Obsession

"Stay behind the table!" Enzo orders me, rolling off my body to draw his weapon. His ice-blue eyes burn with homicidal fire. "Do not move, Elena!"

I pull my knees to my chest, reaching for the gun behind my jacket. I am not a helpless hostage. I survived the bombing at my uncle's vineyard, and I will survive this.

Enzo pops up from behind the overturned mahogany table, his weapon tracking the approaching mercenaries. He fires three rapid shots, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. A Russian soldier drops near the doorway, a bullet lodged between his eyes. Alessio provides suppressive fire, his customized pistol spitting a continuous stream of bullets that forces the attackers to seek cover behind the rubble.

"They have us pinned!" Niccolò yells, ejecting a spent magazine and slamming a fresh one into his grip. "We need to push through the service corridor!"

28

Enzo

The emergency strobe lights flash in erratic, blinding bursts, casting the settling dust in harsh flashes of white and crimson. Screams tear through the haze as the older Commission bosses realize their untouchable status just expired in a hail of automatic gunfire.

They brought an army to a boardroom

I roll off Elena, keeping my hand securely on her shoulder to ensure she stays pinned behind the overturned table.

I draw my customized Glock, the polymer grip familiar and reassuring in my palm. The tailored charcoal suit I wore to manipulate offshore accounts and dictate legal precedents is now covered in gray soot.

Niccolò and Alessio are already moving. We do not require verbal commands to coordinate our counter-offensive. We spent our youth surviving horrors that bonded our instincts into a cohesive, unstoppable weapon.

Alessio pops up from the left flank, his customized pistol spitting a relentless stream of hollow-point rounds. He draws the incoming fire, laughing a harsh, grating sound that cuts through the chaos. Two Russian mercenaries turn their assault rifles toward him, taking the bait.

I shift to the right, using the shattered remnants of a leather chair for cover. I acquire the first target in my sights, a mercenary reloading his weapon near the blown-out elevator bank. I squeeze the trigger twice. The rounds strike him directly in the throat, sending a spray of red across the ruined plaster before he crashes to the floor.

Niccolò vaults over the edge of our makeshift barricade, a suppressed rifle in his hands. He advances on a cluster of Bratva soldiers pinned near the service doors with the grace of a hunting panther.

"Enzo, crossfire!" Niccolò shouts over the din of the shootout.

I break cover, sliding across the blood-slicked carpet to position myself adjacent to my older brother. We form an interlocking grid of suppressing fire, trapping the advancing Russians in a kill zone. Alessio rushes the center, sliding on his knees under a barrage of bullets, and drives a combat knife upward into the gut of a Russian attempting to throw a flashbang. The explosive drops from the mercenary's hand, rolling harmlessly into a corner before Alessio kicks it down an open elevator shaft. The muffled detonation shakes the floorboards beneath our boots.

A mercenary steps out from an alcove, aiming a shotgun directly at my blind spot. Before I can pivot, a sharp crack rings out from behind our barricade. The Russian’s shoulder jerks backward, his weapon discharging harmlessly into the ceiling. Elena stands her ground behind the mahogany wood, smoke curling from the barrel of her derringer.

I offer her a fraction of a nod before I turn my attention back to the slaughter. We push the Russians back, step by step, forcing them into a bottleneck near the secondary exit corridors.

Alessio grabs a wounded mercenary by the tactical vest, hauling him up to use as a human shield as another volley of rounds tears through the smoke. "Where is the Pakhan?" Alessio roars, driving his elbow into the man's jaw.

The dying Russian spits blood, pointing a shaking finger toward the service hallway leading to the parking garage.

Through the dissipating gray smoke, I catch a glimpse of the new Volkov leader. The Pakhan wears a reinforced tactical rig over a tailored suit, his face contorted in a mask of furious desperation as he realizes his hit squad is being systematically dismantled. He thought he could corner the Severato brothers in a boardroom. He misjudged the predators he decided to hunt.

He turns on his heel, shoving one of his own men into Niccolò’s line of fire to buy himself the necessary seconds to escape through the service doors.

"Hold the room!" I command, slapping a fresh magazine into my weapon. "I have the Pakhan!"

"Bring his head back, brother," Niccolò replies, firing a three-round burst into the final cluster of Bratva soldiers.

I sprint across the ruined conference room, my boots crunching over shattered glass and splintered wood. I push through the swinging service doors, entering a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The fluorescent tubes overhead flicker erratically, damaged by the concussive force of the explosives.

I track the smear of muddy footprints and the frantic, retreating sounds of the Pakhan's boots against the concrete. The hallway twists through the subterranean infrastructure of the hotel, bypassing the laundry facilities and industrial kitchens. He is trying to reach the lower loading docks, hoping to find an extraction vehicle.

I increase my pace when a Russian straggler attempts to block my path near the service elevators, raising a submachine gun. I don't break my stride. I fire a single round into his kneecap, dropping him to the concrete, and follow it up with a finishing shot to the chest as I pass his collapsing form.

The chase leads me deeper into the bowels of the building. I turn the final corner, stepping out onto the expansive concrete loading dock. The rain is pouring down outside, a torrential deluge that washes the grime into the storm drains.

A black SUV idles near the edge of the ramp, the driver frantic as he revs the engine. The Volkov Pakhan is sprinting toward the open passenger door, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

I raise my Glock, stabilizing my grip with both hands. I aim for the front left tire of the extraction vehicle and fire. The rubber explodes with a loud pop, the SUV dropping violently onto its rim. The driver curses, slamming his foot on the accelerator, but the ruined tire catches on the concrete, spinning the heavy vehicle sideways into a massive steel dumpster. The collision crumples the front fender, trapping the SUV against the brick wall.