Chapter 4 - The Sound of Breaking GlassCresting the iron ladder inside the abandoned grain elevator, the noise hit us like a physical blow.
Shouts in harsh Russian echoed across the cavernous concrete floor above. Heavy boots slammed against steel catwalks. And beneath it all, a man’s voice—cold, steady, and utterly unfazed by pain—barked a warning that made my blood run cold.
“You’re a coward, Savich,” Alessandro’s voice rang out, rich with absolute disdain. “You need forty men and a hostage just to face one unarmed man? My grandfather would have shot you himself for being such an embarrassment to the Bratva.”
We peeked through the rusted slats of a floor vent overlooking the central staging area.
Below us, Alessandro was tied to a steel support pillar in the center of the room. His tailored black suit was stained with dirt and blood, a deep crimson gash split across his left cheekbone, but his dark eyes burned with an unyielding, predatory fire.
Ten feet away, Camila Marino was bound tightly to a wooden chair, gagged with duct tape, sobbing silently as a hulking Russian enforcer held the blade of a hunting knife against her throat.
Viktor Savich—a scarred, heavily tattooed monster with a gold-capped tooth—stood directly in front of Alessandro, holding the silver cryptographic drive up to the dim overhead light.
“You always did talk too much, Cross,” Savich laughed, his voice like grinding stones. “Where is the rest of the encryption key? The drive is useless without the biometric master code stored in your head.”
“Go to hell,” Alessandro spat.
Savich raised the heavy handle of his pistol, bringing it down hard across Alessandro’s temple. A sickening crack echoed through the warehouse. Alessandro slumped forward, blood pooling darkly from his hairline.
“Alessandro!” Camila muffled a scream through her gag, thrashing violently against the chair.
“Quiet, little rat,” Savich sneered, turning back toward Alessandro. “If he won't talk, we start carving pieces off the girl. Let’s see how long your famous mafia honor lasts when—"
Clink.
A small, insignificant sound cut him off.
High above the catwalks, one of Maso’s empty shell casings had slipped from his pocket, clattering against the metal grating.
Every head in the warehouse snapped upward.
“We’ve been breached!” a Russian guard screamed, raising his assault rifle toward the catwalk.
“Now!” I yelled.
I didn't wait for Maso or Dante. I kicked the floor vent outward, sending rusted metal crashing down onto the guards below, and dropped six feet straight onto the catwalk railing, my father’s .38 Special already leveled at the center of Savich’s chest.
“Drop the knife!” I shouted, the sound echoing off the concrete walls with terrifying authority.
Savich spun around, his eyes widening in utter disbelief as he stared up at me.
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“Adriana?” Savich blinked, lowering his pistol slightly in pure shock. “What is the discarded wife doing here? Did Alessandro invite you to his own funeral?”
“No,” I said, stepping off the edge of the catwalk, sliding down a thick industrial cable with sparks flying around my gloves, and landing squarely on the concrete floor ten feet away from him. “I came to collect what’s mine.”
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