Page 83 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Let’s move,” I say, gesturing toward the private exit behind my office. This route will bypass the main floor, leading to the service area where a vehicle should be waiting.

Marco leads the way, his movements controlled yet alert. Lea follows, her steps measured and quiet. I bring up the rear, scanning constantly, the weight of my weapon a reassuring presence against my ribs.

We descend the narrow stairwell in silence. The music from the club grows fainter, replaced by the dull hum of industrial air handling systems. The service corridor stretches before us, dimly lit and utilitarian with concrete floors, exposed pipes overhead, steel doors at regular intervals.

We’re halfway to the exit when I hear it, the subtle click of a side door being tested. Marco freezes, hand raised to halt our progress. Lea stops, her body tensing as she registers the change in atmosphere.

Three seconds of absolute stillness. Four. Five.

The door at the end of the corridor bursts open.

Everything happens at once.

The gunshot cracks through the confined space, deafening in its intensity. Glass shatters as a bullet strikes an overhead light fixture. Marco reacts with practiced efficiency, shoving Lea behind a concrete support pillar, drawing his weapon in the same fluid motion.

I’m already moving, dropping into a crouch as I draw my Sig. Four men in tactical gear pour through the doorway, professional killers, not street thugs. No masks, no hesitation. They’re here to eliminate, not intimidate.

The first attacker advances, weapon raised. I center my sight picture and squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession. Center mass. The impact drives him backward, weapon discharging harmlessly into the ceiling as he falls.

Marco engages the second, the exchange of gunfire creating a disorienting barrage of sound in the enclosed space, the sharp scent of cordite stinging my nostrils. The emergency lighting kicks in automatically as more fixtures shatter, bathing everything in pulsing red. Blood appears black in this light, shadows writhing like living things against the concrete walls.

I adjust position, seeking better cover as the third attacker moves laterally, attempting to flank us. My mind operates on two tracks simultaneously: the immediate tactical situation and the broader strategic implications.Why tonight? What intelligence did Moretti receive that prompted this timing?

The questions evaporate as a second team breaches from the opposite direction. We’re caught in a classic pincer movement, escape routes closing rapidly.

“Panic room!” Marco shouts over the gunfire, already maneuvering toward the concealed entrance twenty meters away.

I assess instantly. We’re cut off. The distance is too great, the cover too sparse. We’d be exposed for a critical five seconds. Unacceptable risk.

“Negative!” I call back, gesturing toward a service alcove to our right. “Alternative route!”

Marco nods, understanding. We’ve rehearsed contingencies for years, mapped every potential escape path. He provides covering fire as I grip Lea’s arm, pulling her toward the alcove.

She moves with surprising coordination, staying low as instructed. No screaming, no freezing in panic. Her adaptability continues to impress, even in this chaos.

We’re three meters from cover when it happens. A bullet clips my side, tearing through my jacket and shirt to score a burning path across my ribs. White-hot pain flares, but adrenaline keeps it manageable.I’ve experienced worse. This is superficial, painful but not debilitating.

We reach the alcove, temporary shelter from the immediate gunfire. I check my wound. It’s bleeding steadily but not arterial. Manageable. Lea’s eyes widen at the sight of blood darkening my shirt, but she says nothing, maintaining the composed silence.

Marco provides suppressing fire from his position, buying us precious seconds. I’m calculating our next move when catastrophe strikes.

Marco takes a hit to his right leg. The impact spins him, driving him to one knee. Even from this distance, I can see it’s bad, femoral involvement likely from the volume of blood already darkening his pants.

Despite the injury, he maintains fire discipline, continuing to engage the approaching attackers. But his mobility is compromised. He can’t make it to our position.

Time slows as I watch one of Moretti’s men advance on Marco’s position, weapon raised for a kill shot. It’s one of the fucking twins. Matteo. I try to establish a firing line, but the angle is wrong, the distance too great for a reliable headshot around Lea’s position.

Marco knows.I see it in his eyes as he glances my way, not pleading for help, but offering absolution for what we both know is about to happen. Then he turns back to face his executioner, defiance written in every line of his body.

“Tell Moretti he still shoots like a bitch,” he spits, blood on his teeth, chin raised in one final act of loyalty.

The gunshot reverberates through the corridor like a thunderclap. Marco’s body jerks once, then slumps forward, motionless on the concrete floor.

Something breaks inside me.

The cold, strategic calculation that has defined my survival for decades shatters, replaced by a white-hot rage that consumes rational thought. Marco isn’t just my right hand, he’s the brother I chose, the one person who has stood beside me through every trial, the only man I trust completely.

Was. Was the only man.

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