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“Don’t think it came from inside. It was too loud,” Goretti says, trying to reassure me.

I hope to fuck he’s right.

But if they weren’t shooting at Sylvie, then—

Tony grabs my shoulder from the back seat like he’s reading my mind.

“We have to extract him, boss. Can’t just let him die in there, if there’s a chance he’s still alive.”

Fuck, poor Russo.

I didn’t get my warning off before all hell broke loose. He must’ve wandered into view.

We lock eyes. “Suggestions?”

He doesn’t have the time to answer, because Russo comes rushing out from behind the house, his arms flailing, deep-crimson blood gushing out of his left leg, high up in the thigh.

He hits the ground and army crawls toward the gate of my estate with one good leg, determined to make it out alive.

Dammit, I owe him that much.

I’m not letting him bleed out on my front lawn.

Before I know what I’m doing, I throw the van into drive and ram the entrance, knocking down the gate, barking orders in what can only be described as gibberish.

Two of the guys in the back pop out and race across the lawn, hoisting the injured man into the back of the vehicle. I jump out and let another man take the wheel, bringing a few boys with me.

We prowl in closer, guns weaving through the night, just waiting for shots from the windows.

A crash like that gate coming down might make some neighbor notice, and then they’ll call the cops. We’ve got ten or fifteen minutes before this gets messier.

I’m not expecting two giant goons in dark tactical gear to emerge from the bushes.

There’s barely time to react, let alone to get back to the van.

We use the side of it as cover. They’re not jumpy, and they don’t shoot.

A sick part of me feels relief it’s not more of my crew turned traitor.

That barely lasts a second.

Only Rennick’s fucks would be decked out in tactical gear like that, and now they know we’re here.

My men have their weapons drawn, and Rennick’s follow suit, pointing precision rifles at our heads that look military grade.

We’re not remotely equipped for this.

We need to get the fuck out of here while we still can.

Rennick’s men don’t hold back.

A storm of bullets pelts the van, but only one quick volley. Like they’re holding back, trying not to draw more attention to the battle in this upscale neighborhood.

We duck behind the van, a couple guys managing to get in a good shot or two.

The Ferrazzo-Everhart relationship is as good as fucking gone.

Through the hellstorm, we get Russo loaded in the back of the van without anyone else turning into ground hamburger.