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As we neared, another man—a shorter guy with dark hair—stepped out of the hangar. One look at me and he grew visibly pale, as if he’d just seen a ghost—couldn’t be me, though. I never forgot a face, and I sure as hell didn’t remember this guy’s.
But before he could say anything, the boy on my back began to squeal and jump and fidget…and got me right in the nuts with his heel.
White-hot pain flashed from my crotch upwards.
Fuck.
I groaned, slung him over my shoulder, put him on the ground in front of me, and cupped my crown jewels.
Not cool.
I had one hand on the boy’s shoulder, holding him back, but he broke free from my—arguably loose—grasp and sprinted into the dark-haired guy’s arms, burying his face in the man’s stomach.
“Mi hijo,” the man whispered, tears streaming down his face as he clutched the boy close.
The boy was his son? I straightened, the pain slightly less excruciating, and exchanged an incredulous look with Hawk.
Even he didn’t know what was going on.
Which made the hair on my neck stand up.
I’d never known Hawk as sloppy in any of the OPS he’d taken on.
This was not business as usual.
And it put me on edge.
“Ciao, Gabriele. Quite the impressive performance,” a familiar voice called out, its owner stepping forward with a grin. “You always had a knack for theatrics—even as a child.”
My heart skipped a beat as I stared at the older man with the gray-streaked hair who one, knew my real name, and two, whose voice was awfully familiar—especially talking Italian.
I walked closer, and he removed his glasses, and realization hit me like the gust of wind that inevitably hit you after you had your scope trained and dialed in on a target.
Alfredo Salvini—my old, childhood-best-friend’s father and current head of the Italian Mafia in the US.
What the hell was he doing here?
And what the hell was Hawk doing with those guys?
“Long time no see, Signore Salvini,” I replied cautiously, trying to mask my surprise. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Business, of course,mi figlio,” he answered. “We’re waiting for one more arrival.” He pointed at the small airplane which had been circling during the action and was now approaching the runway.
“Gentlemen. Shall we go inside? We have much to discuss,” Mr. Salvini said and gestured toward the hangar, apparently not intending to wait for whoever was in that last plane.
I hesitated, my insides tightened, and I looked at Hawk.
I was a sniper—my assignment was to provide overwatch, and I should get back to my position on the tower to do just that.
Hawk nodded knowingly, then activated his radio. “Birdie, overwatch position, tower. Now.”
I narrowed my lids. What the fuck? Birdie was here?
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said before he turned to follow Salvini Senior and the other three men, and the boy, into the hangar.
My brain worked a mile a minute.
If the Salvinis were involved, this operation just took a turn for the worst.
