Page 62 of Mafia King

Nikolai feels a fierce, unexpected surge of pride cut through the battle haze. The combined weight of Nikolai’s men and Maxim’s gradually turns the fight. The Rossini shooters are better equipped for an ambush than for a sustained, two-sided engagement.

Within minutes the lot falls silent except for the ringing in every ear and the low groans of the wounded. The remaining Rossini vehicles sit empty or burning. Nikolai crosses the open ground in five long strides and pulls Theo into his arms. He is breathing hard, the suitcase still locked in one hand, the tiny pistol in the other.

For a moment neither of them speaks.

Maxim’s voice cuts in, urgent and already moving.

“No time to waste,” Maxim barks. “I have a full squad waiting outside the Rossini stronghold. We finish this tonight. Full assault. End them for good.”

Nikolai keeps one arm around Theo and looks down at him.

“Go home,” Nikolai says. “Wait for me there.”

Theo shakes his head once, eyes clear and certain. “I’ve come this far. I’m not turning back now.” He releases the suitcase, reaches for the nearest fallen automatic rifle, checks the magazine with practiced hands, and locks and loads it in a single clean motion.

The weapon looks too large for Theo’s frame, yet he holds it as if it has always belonged there. Nikolai studies Theo for one additional second: his boy, his Little, the person who just killed the man who hired him and is now ready to walk into a full-scale assault at his side, then gives a single nod.

“Stay close to me,” Nikolai says.

Together they turn toward the waiting vehicles.

This night is far from over yet.

The storming of the Rossini residence unfolds in controlled, brutal waves.

Nikolai moves room by room beside Theo, the automatic rifle steady in his hands, his own weapon covering the angles Theo cannot.

Maxim’s men and Nikolai’s soldiers clear the corridors with practiced efficiency: short bursts of fire, shouted commands, the heavy thud of bodies hitting marble and hardwood.

The once-opulent house is being dismantled from the inside out.

Paintings are shattered, chandeliers crash down, and the remaining Rossini resistance collapses under the sheer weight of the assault.

There is no turning back for them now. The clan that has bled his territory for months is being erased in a single night.

Theo’s voice cuts through the gunfire, sharp and focused.

“Three senior-looking enemy targets. Back exit!” Theo points, his eyes laser focused.

Nikolai sees them at the same moment: three older men in expensive coats, moving fast through the rear French doors toward the dark expanse of the formal garden.

Nikolai signals with two fingers. Theo stays glued to his side as they pursue, Maxim close behind, the three of them cutting through the chaos with singular purpose.

Outside, the night air is thick with the smell of cordite and torn earth. A helicopter sits on the rear lawn, rotors already spinning up, its side door open and waiting.

The three Rossini bosses sprint across the grass, desperation giving them speed. Nikolai does not waste breath on orders...

“One each,” Nikolai says. He raises his rifle and fires. The first man drops mid-stride.

Theo’s shot follows a fraction of a second later—clean, center mass—and the second boss crumples.

Maxim’s bullet takes the third just as the man reaches for the helicopter skid. The aircraft lifts a meter off the ground, then the pilot sees the bodies and aborts, swinging away into the dark rather than wait for the same fate.

Nikolai, Theo, and Maxim walk forward together across the ruined lawn. The three fallen men are still breathing, barely.

There is no speech, no final exchange of threats.

Each of them delivers the finishing shot with cold precision.