Page 53 of His Ruthless Obsession

"Don't move unless someone tells you to run," Nerio reminds me before turning and moving back up the alley. Where he'll defend me.

The trap is set. Now we wait.

I try to run through all the ways Nerio taught me how to fight earlier. I was more than glad he armed me, even if the weight of the Glock 19 feels foreign against my hip, even after Nerio's impromptu shooting lesson earlier. My fingers brush the grip, remembering his hands positioning mine.

"Wider stance." His chest had pressed against my back as he adjusted my form. "Both eyes open. Breathe out when you squeeze the trigger."

I'd managed to hit the makeshift target more times than I missed, but paper doesn't shoot back.

Marco gestures for me to stay behind a stack of wooden crates. I crouch down, heart hammering against my ribs. The voices grow louder, echoing off concrete walls.

I can't see anything from here. The need to know what's happening claws at my chest. Despite Nerio's orders, I edge forward, staying low. Years of dance training make my movements silent as I slip between crates.

A better vantage point reveals Nerio and his men spread out in defensive positions. Marco signals something I can't interpret. Metal scrapes against metal - magazines being checked, safeties clicking off.

"Remember," Nerio's voice carries just enough for his men to hear. "We want to prove dominance. Capos, we take. Soldiers are taken out. The rest are expendable."

My palms sweat around the grip of the gun. The lessons replay in my head: rack the slide, align the sights, squeeze don't pull. I shouldn't be here. Should've listened. Should've stayed put. But the thought of Nerio facing danger while I hide makes my stomach turn.

I press myself against a concrete pillar, close enough now to see everything but still hidden in shadow. Nerio's head snaps toward my movement. Even in the dim light, I catch the flash of anger in his eyes when he spots me.

Too late to retreat now. Footsteps sound at the end of the alley.

The first shot cracks through the night like thunder. I flinch, pressing harder against the pillar as chaos erupts. Bodies surge forward, shouts and curses filling the alley.

"You're on our territory, Mantione!" Nerio's voice cuts through the mayhem.

Glass shatters. The acrid smell of gunpowder burns my nostrils. Through the haze, I catch glimpses of the fight - a brutal dance of fists and firearms. Marco slams someone against the wall while Tony disarms another with practiced efficiency.

"Fuck you, Bueti!" A voice I don't recognize. "This block is going to belong to us!"

More shots ring out, but they're aimed high - warnings rather than kill shots. A window explodes overhead, raining glass. I duck, covering my head.

I had heard Marco talking earlier. That the Mantiones thought the security would be light here tonight and they could move in, taking the product, hit the Buetis hard. They seemed to think they could start taking some territory that didn't belong to them.

But instead, they found an ambush.

"That what Luca told you?" Nerio laughs, the sound dangerous. "Your boss is getting desperate."

Two men grapple near me, trading blows. Blood sprays as a nose breaks. Someone crashes into a stack of crates, wood splintering.

"You think this changes anything?" One of the Mantione capos steps forward, his suit pristine despite the chaos. "We're not backing down."

"Then you're dumber than you look." Marco drives his knee into someone's stomach. "Tell Luca to remember his place."

The fighting intensifies. Bodies slam against concrete. Brass knuckles flash in the dim light. I watch Nerio move through the violence like he's conducting an orchestra, each strike calculated and precise.

"Last chance," Nerio calls out. "Walk away while you still can."

But we all know they aren't backing out.

And then the gunfire starts up again.

I can't tear my eyes away from Nerio as he moves through the chaos. His movements are fluid, precise - like a predator who's done this a thousand times before. He catches a punch aimed at his jaw, twisting the attacker's arm until bone snaps. The man's scream cuts off as Nerio's elbow connects with his temple.

"You really thought you could come into my territory and not face consequences?" Nerio's voice carries over the fighting, cold and sharp as steel. He drives his knee into someone's ribs, following through with a brutal uppercut that leaves them sprawled on the concrete. "Amateur mistake."

My finger stays steady on the trigger, just like he taught me. But I don't need to fire - Nerio and his men have complete control of the situation. There's an art to his violence, a deadly grace in every calculated strike. He doesn't waste energy on flashy moves or unnecessary force. Each hit serves a purpose, designed to disable and dominate.

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