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Cries ring out from above as the Ferraro soldiers scramble to fortify their position. The cramped stairwell will provide a natural choke point for their defense, but we have righteous vengeance on our side. With a savage roar, I lead the headlong charge up the steps, heedless of any strategic caution. I want—no need—to feel flesh yield beneath my fists, hear the visceral crunch of bone and sinew. The beast within me, always lurking just beneath the surface, now thrashes wildly against its thinning restraints, begging to be unleashed. There will be a reckoning tonight in blood.
Halfway up the stairs, we collide with the first line of defenders mid-retreat. The flash and deafening crack of weapons discharging at point blank range fills the air. Men scream as bullets tear through muscle and tissue, the guttural sounds cut off abruptly as more rounds find their mark. The sickly sweet stench of perforated bowels assaults my nose, overriding the usual metallic bite of gun smoke. I grit my teeth and push onward, absorbing the brutal recoil of my weapon as round after round slams home in Ferraro skulls. Blood spatter warm as bathwater mists my face. Beside me a Ricci soldier chokes on his own blood before crumpling lifelessly past me down the stairs. I don't even know his name. But his sacrifice and all the others tonight fuel our fury as we fight on.
We gain ground up the steps through vicious attrition, the piles of dead and dying blocking any retreat for the living. I take grim satisfaction with each life torn brutally away, picturing in vivid detail their pain and terror visited back a hundredfold on Clara. Were these same men party to her torment? Laughing cruelly as they bound an innocent girl and beat her father bloody? The vivid imaginings ignite my rage to a white hot inferno. If any still draw breath by the time I reach her, their deaths will be agonizing recompense.
More resistance awaits on the third floor landing, where Roberto's men are making their desperate last stand. Crouched behind the meager cover of door frames, their wild eyes remind me of animals backed into a corner. Feral, reckless, afraid. They meet us with an endless barrage of frantic gunfire as we charge from the stairwell, the relentless strafing splintering wooden doors and plaster walls. Clouds of powdered Sheetrock choke the air alongside the acrid sting of gun smoke. Visibility narrows to a few feet in the haze, but still we keep the enemy pinned down with continuous volleys from our own weapons. Behind the scant protection of the stair railing, I reload swiftly, the motions ingrained from endless training. Check the magazine, slide it home, rack the slide to chamber a new round. Only when I'm locked and loaded again do I rise from cover and advance steadily behind the shield of the fallen.
Lorenzo and Pietro fight with coordinated lethality honed from a lifetime battling side by side, ruthlessly cutting down any who dare raise a weapon to us. Hot blood sprays outward in arterial spurts as their blades find flesh. Even Giovanni, normally the gentle voice of reason, fights at my shoulder with primal fury contorting his handsome features. Nothing of the tender soul I know remains, replaced entirely by the beast within. But it is Lorenzo who is truly death incarnate stalking the battlefield, his lithely muscular frame moving with preternatural grace as his steel flashes. Like a cobra strike, none can evade his wrath for long. Efficient, elegant, relentless.
The numbers holding this position dwindle under our sustained assault but still they fight on with crazed desperation, loyal until death to their master. It's too late for them to beg for mercy now, even if we were inclined to grant it. The salty stench of voided bowels and blood hangs heavy as we claim each foot of ground. Past and present blur together until we are again the wild youths who clawed our way to power through sheer brutality, afraid of nothing. Not even death can stop our advance. The beast within howls its satisfaction.
By the time we batter our way to Clara's apartment door, we've carved a trail of carnage in our wake. Bodies sprawl scattered on the landing amid spent bullet casings, torn flesh and drying pools of crimson. The smell threatens to choke me. Blood slick under my Italian leather boots causes me to skid and crash shoulder first into the doorframe. I barely register the blossoming pain, single-minded purpose driving me onward. With a savage kick, I smash apart the flimsy hollow door, sending splintered wood exploding inward.
CHAPTER23
CLARA
The dim lights of my apartment cast an eerie shadow over everything, setting my nerves further on edge. My heart thumps rapidly in my chest like a caged bird desperate for escape. The stillness of the room is interrupted only by the soft, pained moans of my father. I glance over at him on the faded floral couch, taking in his disheveled appearance.
The gunshot wound went clean through his left shoulder, but he's losing a lot of blood. I hold a kitchen towel to the wound, pressing down firmly to try and stop the bleeding, but without much use. The once white towel is soaked through with deep crimson, the metallic scent of blood heavy in the air.
I locked the front door as best I could after the initial attack, but the flimsy wood is splintered and the frame itself is a bent mess. It's already been kicked in twice now and provides little real security.
The left side of my father's face is swollen and bruised, the skin mottled shades of blue, black and purple. A small trickle of blood drips from the corner of his mouth where his lip was split open. His breathing comes in short, pained gasps as he struggles to remain conscious.
I glance up apprehensively as the front door creaks open once more. A tall, muscular man steps inside, his expensive Italian leather shoes clicking sharply on the worn hardwood floor. He's dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, but his eyes are cold and calculating. The look of a predator. I don't recognize him as one of the Ferraro's enforcers, but he clearly is one of them. He sneers at me, his lip curling in a mix of amusement and disgust.
"Daddy," I whisper, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes. My voice catches in my throat. My father's eyes flutter open briefly and he looks up at me, his gaze pained but clear. I can tell he's trying to summon some shred of protectiveness, but slumped against the couch clutching his injured shoulder, it's futile.
The enforcer circles us slowly, like a shark preparing its attack. His polished wingtip shoes scuff debris scattered across the worn floor - the shattered remains of the lamp lay strewn haphazardly from the scuffle with the first guard, now slumped in the corner. Its bulb flickers weakly in futility amongst the fragments of ceramic and glass.
The dingy curtains flutter lightly in the cool night breeze drifting in through the open living room window. The sounds of the city at night filter up from the streets below - passing cars, a distant police siren, raucous laughter from the pub on the corner. Out there, life goes on as normal while ours hangs precariously in the balance.
I position myself directly between my injured father and the looming enforcer, trying to use what little height I have to my advantage. Every muscle in my body is taut, ready to react. The enforcer smirks, clearly underestimating me as his eyes scan up and down my frame, seeming to enjoy the thrill of the hunt. I ball my hands into fists and lift my chin, refusing to show an ounce of fear.
In a flash, he lunges forward, reaching out with a massive hand to grab me. I react on pure instinct, sidestepping just out of his grasp. His momentum causes him to stumble slightly as his outstretched fingers close around only air. He turns swiftly, surprise flashing briefly across his stubbled face before morphing into anger. I hear the dull thud as his shoulder impacts the wall, rattling the faded painting that hangs crookedly there. It slips another inch down the wall but miraculously doesn't fall.
He recovers quickly, barely fazed, and growls low in his throat. It's clear now he won't be holding back anymore. The amused smirk is gone, replaced by a menacing glower.
My senses become hyper focused, taking in every detail of my surroundings. Amongst the debris scattered across the worn floor are several long, jagged shards of the ceramic lamp. Spying a particularly sharp piece near my foot, I discreetly pick it up in my left hand, clutching the ragged edge against my palm to avoid slicing my fingers.
The enforcer chuckles darkly, a cruel glint in his icy blue eyes. "Go on then, take your best shot, little girl. I'm going to enjoy breaking that fiery spirit of yours."
His vile threat sends a chill down my spine, but I force myself to hold my ground. He thinks I'm just a frightened young woman he can intimidate with his sheer size and malice. He has no idea of the ferocity I can summon when protecting my father and defending my life. My fear melts away, replaced by a burning anger. I brace myself as he charges forward once more.
As he reaches out to grab my wrist, I make my move. In one smooth motion, I duck under his grasp, dropping into a crouch. With a guttural yell, I drive the shard upwards, slashing a deep gash across his outstretched forearm.
He howls in pain, clutching the bleeding wound. Shock flashes briefly across his face before morphing into rage. "You little bitch! I'm going to make you suffer for that!"
Ignoring the screaming pain in his arm, he lunges for me again. I slash wildly with the bloodied shard, forcing him back. We circle each other warily. The enforcer presses forward aggressively, refusing to let his wound slow him down. He feints left, then darts right unexpectedly. I don't see his other arm until it closes around my wrist in an iron vise.
I cry out as the shard clatters to the floor, slicing my palm. The enforcer twists my arm painfully behind my back, his hot breath in my ear. "Not so tough now, are you sweetheart?" He jerks my arm higher up my back. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
Behind me, I hear my father groan weakly. The sound fuels my fury, dulling the pain. With a primal scream, I drive my elbow backwards with as much force as I can, directly into the enforcer's solar plexus. His grip on me loosens as he gasps for breath. Wrenching myself free, I whirl around, adrenaline surging through my veins. I rake my nails viciously down his face, leaving bloody furrows across his cheek.
With a bellow of rage, he backhands me hard across my right cheek. Pain explodes through my face and stars burst across my vision. I crash backwards over the upturned coffee table, broken shards of the lamp cutting into my palms and knees.
Dazed, I try to crawl away but a strong hand fists in my hair, wrenching my head back. The enforcer drags me forcibly to my feet. Through the haze, I see him draw a wicked hunting knife from inside his suit jacket. My blood turns to ice water in my veins.
