Page 68 of Dario DeLuca

I nod gratefully. The lead is a lifeline, a chance to unravel the truth threatening to suffocate us all. I turn, purpose fueling my stride, the need to act building in my chest. Once outside, Rafael stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

"Go to the hospital," Rafael urges.

“What." I frown.

“We don't know what we're about to walk into, and you don't need to be there."

"Move."

“You're not just a Mafioso anymore, D. A war might break out tonight, and you need to be far away from it. Enzo gave us an order, remember? Let me handle it."

"That motherfucker hurt Mia. I'm going." Stepping around my cousin, I walk towards the driver's side of my SUV.

A second later, Ty, Marquel, and three other Black men exit the house and approach us.

“We’re ridin’ out with you.”

Rafael meets my gaze, silent questions flying between us.

As if he can read our minds, Ty says, “Like I said. Dude shot the mayor and possibly ruined something the community desperately needed.”

That's all I need to hear. With a tip of my head, I give them my approval. I know exactly where they’re coming from. If you stand for nothing, you’ll fall for anything.

We separate and jump into our respective vehicles. Engines roar to life, a chorus of defiance as we pull away.

I ride in silence, my mind set on ending this shit tonight. We turn down the abandoned block, met with the crumbling canvas of forgotten streets. This place, once vibrant, now lies in ruin—a mausoleum of memories decayed by neglect. Glancing around, I see the detritus of lives scattered like confetti after a parade has passed, leaving only the desperate and the damned.

We near the house with the blue door. The paint has chipped away, and the once-white brick is now caked with dirt and nearly overtaken by vines. We stop several feet away and kill our engines. The men are out of their cars, dispersing with the fluidity.

I step out. The air is heavy with the stench of rot and resignation. My gaze travels over the cracks of the pavement and broken windows that stare like vacant eyes.

As we edge closer to the property line, the silence is alive and thick with anticipation. I scan the decrepit structures, each telling its own tale of desolation. Here, an abandoned pram—its wheels turned skyward—and there, a needle glinting beneath the moon’s cold scrutiny.

We approach the derelict house with guns drawn. Overgrown weeds crunch under our feet, the only sound cutting through the tense quiet.

I jerk my head, signaling everyone to get in place. Whoever’s in there will be surrounded. My grip tightens on the Beretta as a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. The stench of piss and rotting garbage is overpowering, and I wrinkle in disgust.

Movement in my periphery snaps me back into focus. A curtain twitches on the second floor. The hairs on my neck prickle as adrenaline spikes through my veins. I'm locked and loaded, bracing for whatever's about to go down.

Then, a flicker. A red dot dances across the bricks, a harbinger of danger.

"Down!" My voice slices the quiet. Instinct drives us, bodies tensing, scattering for cover—the choreography of survival etched into our bones.

"Move. Move."

We took shelter behind the carcasses of cars and the brittle bones of shrubbery. Bullets shred through the night, spitting metal death indiscriminately.

Ty and his men return fire blindly as we scramble for better shelter. We bolt in opposite directions, weaving to avoid the hail of lead chewing up the ground around us. Paint crumbles each time a stray round punctures the house.

I taste the acrid bite of gunpowder on my tongue and feel the heat of near misses licking my skin. Time slows, adrenaline hijacking my senses, amplifying every echo of gunfire and every splinter of wood or metal.

Silence falls abruptly. In the aftermath, a new sound emerges—frantic footsteps pounding from within the house. They’re running. We hold our breath, a collective inhale, our ears straining against the stillness.

I nod to Rafael, a silent exchange of intention, and his eyes flash back with the same fire that fuels mine. We’ve danced with death before, and today is no different.

My grip tightens on the gun, and every muscle sings with tension. My finger instinctively hugs the trigger, ready to neutralize the threat at the first sign of movement.

Then, the sound of the back door suddenly flying open shatters the stillness with a splintering crash. I have a split second to register the silhouette of a figure bolting into the night before a loud roar drowns out all other sounds.

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