[Dante’s POV]
The warehouse smells like rust and approaching violence—the kind that settles in your bones before the first shot fires.
I walk through the main entrance with three of my men flanking me, playing Don Falcone attending a routine territory negotiation like I haven't spent two weeks rigging this building to become a crematorium.
Lorenzo stands near the center with his usual smug expression, surrounded by more soldiers than necessary. His eyes track my approach with barely contained anticipation, practically vibrating with the knowledge of what he thinks is about to happen.
Stupido. He thinks he's won already. Thinks I'm walking into his trap like some amateur who forgot to check the exits.
"Falcone." He inclines his head with just enough respect to avoid outright insubordination. "Good of you to come. We have much to discuss."
"I'm sure we do." I stop ten feet away, hands relaxed at my sides. My men spread out slightly, creating angles of fire. "Though I'm curious why you need twelve soldiers for a discussion about shipping routes."
His smile widens, and I see it—that flash of triumph he can't quite suppress. "Insurance. These are uncertain times."
"Indeed they are."
The moment stretches, heavy with unspoken knowledge. I can feel it coming—that breath before violence erupts, when everyone in the room knows what's about to happen but nobody wants to move first.
My watch shows 8:47. Charges are set to blow at 8:49. Two minutes to spring his trap, let him think he's winning, then walk out the back while everything burns.
Simple. Clean. Exactly as planned.
Then Lorenzo's expression shifts from smug to victorious, and guns appear from every shadow.
The east entrance explodes with movement—his men pouring through already shouting, already firing. At least twenty, maybe more. Cazzo. He didn't just bring everyone. He brought an army, bet everything on this one move.
My loyalists were waiting. Positioned in the rafters, behind crates, covering exits I knew he'd try to block.
They open fire immediately and the first wave goes down fast—three of Lorenzo's soldiers dropping before they make it five steps inside. But more keep coming, an endless stream willing to die for ambition they don't understand.
I fire twice. The first shot drops a man reaching for his radio—can't have him calling for backup. The second clips someone's shoulder, spinning him into crates. I duck behind a concrete pillar as bullets chew the wall beside my head, chunks of concrete exploding into dust that coats my jacket.
Across the floor I can see Lorenzo screaming orders, face twisted with fury and something that looks like desperation. He's losing.
The realization is hitting him—his ambush isn't going according to plan, my men are better positioned, better trained. His voice carries over the gunfire, high and angry. "Take him down! I want Falcone dead!"
Si, I bet you do. Too bad you're about to become your own casualty.
I check my watch. 8:48:20. Forty seconds until the charges blow. Thirty-five. I signal my men with sharp gestures—fall back, rear exit, move now.
They understand immediately, years together creating vocabulary without words. They retreat in formation, covering each other while Lorenzo's soldiers swarm everywhere, blocking the path to the back door.
"The door!" Lorenzo shouts, voice raw with desperate rage. "Block the back! Don't let him escape!"
Merda. They're cutting off my exit. The plan involved a clear path, thirty seconds of sprint, being outside before detonation. Not fighting through a barricade while time counts down.
Twenty seconds. Eighteen. Sixteen.
I shoot my way forward, dropping the first man with a shot to the chest. The second takes one to the leg and goes down screaming. Blood sprays across concrete. The third turns to face me and I put two in his chest, center mass.
Ten seconds. Eight.
The door is fifteen feet away. Three bodies between me and freedom, my men already through, Lorenzo's remaining soldiers converging. I can hear him still shouting behind me. "Kill him! Someone fucking kill him!"
A bullet grazes my shoulder—hot, burning like a brand pressed to skin. The pain is excruciating but I keep moving because stopping means dying, and dying means Valentina watches me burn for real.
Ten feet to the door. Seven. Five.
My hand reaches for the handle, fingers closing around metal that's probably going to be molten in approximately three seconds. I yank it open and the world turns white.
The explosion hits like a wall of force that doesn't care about physics or survival. Sound disappears completely—not muffled, not distant, just gone. Replaced by a ringing so loud it swallows everything else, turning my skull into a bell that won't stop clanging.
The floor tilts sideways, or maybe I'm tilting, or maybe the entire universe just decided gravity is negotiable and we're all floating now.
I'm flying. Actually flying through air that's suddenly too hot, too bright, too everything. Then falling, body rotating in slow motion while my brain tries desperately to process what just happened.
The charges weren't supposed to blow for another three seconds. Three seconds is the difference between outside and inside. Three seconds is the difference between alive and dead.
Someone fucked up the timing.
Heat surrounds me—not gradual, just immediate searing heat that makes my skin feel like it's trying to crawl off my bones. Pressure follows, slamming into my chest, my back, my head. The kind of pressure that makes you understand why bombs kill through concussive force, not just fire.
I hit something hard. Wall, floor, ceiling—can't tell anymore because direction has become theoretical. My head cracks against concrete and stars explode behind my eyes, bright and sharp.
The ringing intensifies, filling my skull until there's no room for thoughts, for planning, for the desperate calculation of how badly I just fucked this up. My shoulder where the bullet grazed screams in protest, but that pain is background noise compared to everything else.
Smoke fills my lungs when I try to breathe. Thick, acrid, the kind that tells you organic matter is burning. I try to move. My body doesn't respond. Arms, legs, anything—nothing works. It's like my brain is sending signals and they're getting lost somewhere between intention and execution.
The heat is getting worse. I can feel it through my clothes, through my skin. This is how I die, I think with surprising clarity. Not from the explosion, not from the fall, but from lying here unable to move while fire turns me into something unrecognizable.
Valentina is three blocks away watching the back door. Waiting for me to emerge. Counting seconds that are stretching into minutes. Realizing something went wrong.
Mi dispiace, bella. I'm sorry. I promised I'd make it out. Promised thirty seconds was enough. Promised we'd disappear together and build that boring life with horses and tomatoes and nothing more dangerous than whether the fence needs mending.
I lied.
The darkness creeps in from the edges, black spots expanding across my vision like ink bleeding through paper. I try to fight it, try to stay conscious because unconscious means vulnerable, means dying alone in fire. But the darkness doesn't care what I want.
It just keeps spreading, swallowing the heat and the pain and the ringing until there's nothing left but black.
And then nothing at all.