Page 41 of Shotgun Daddy
The district was a wasteland of twisted girders jutting like bones from the earth, machinery left to rot under years of weather. But tonight, it would come alive. Steel’s intel had pinned this as the traitors’ meetup spot, their last gasp to rally and strike at the Fendi triumvirate of Michael, Matteo, and Faustino.
The war was going to end here, one way or another.
Faustino stepped out of his car, the rain soaking his jacket instantly. Matteo’s black SUV gleamed wet a few yards off, Michael’s sleek 911 parked beside it, their shapes stark against the dim streetlights. Allies moved near the building’s edge… street generals like Vinnie and Marco, their weathered faces set in grim determination, and a dozen street soldiers, young and hungry, their weapons glinting as they melted into the wreckage.
“It’s time,” Faustino growled, wiping the rain from his face. “Time to go psycho one last time.”
Faustino jogged over, boots splashing through puddles, the cold seeping into his bones, and found Matteo crouched behind a massive concrete block and close by Michael hunkered beside a rusted steel girder streaked with orange corrosion. Vinnie and Marco flanked them, their breaths visible in the damp air, while the soldiers fanned out, taking cover behind crumbling walls and twisted metal… silent, lethal, a coiled spring ready to snap.
Matteo looked up, rain dripping from his brow, his voice a low growl over the storm’s din.
“They’re due any minute,” Matteo said. “Steel says fifteen, maybe twenty, armed to the teeth. They think we’re back in the city. The last thing they’ll expect is that we know their location. We hit fast and hard. No mercy, no survivors.”
Michael checked the clip in his pistol, his soaked shirt clinging to his lean frame, tie long gone.
“We end it here, tonight,” Michael growled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em till they’re bleeding out. A clean slate for us.”
Faustino dropped to a crouch, his own gun heavy and slick in his hand, water streaming down his face as he peered through the rain.
“Loyalty or death,” Faustino said, his voice a hard edge, unyielding. “They picked the wrong side. Tough luck,motherfuckers. Let’s make it quick and let’s make it bloody.”
Faustino felt every fiber of his wild side come to the fore. This was the hunt, the kill, the chase all rolled into one.
The group settled into silence, the rain relentless as they waited, tension winding tight in the damp, electric air.
Suddenly, headlights pierced the gloom, a convoy of three cars rolling up slow and deliberate, their engines a low rumble beneath the storm. The traitors had arrived. Rifles slung over shoulders, handguns at hips, they moved with a swagger that reeked of arrogance… fools who thought they’d already won.
Faustino felt anger and vengeance bubble up inside him as he held his position, waiting.
Scum bags…
Traitors…
Dead men…
Faustino’s grip tightened, his pulse a steady thud, rain stinging his eyes. He caught Matteo’s gaze, a silent signal flashing between them…now.
The night erupted in gunfire, a brutal symphony that swallowed the storm.
Faustino fired, his shots precise and merciless, catching the villainous Sal mid-step, the big man’s chest blooming red as he crumpled to the wet pavement with a heavy thud. Matteo’s rounds tore through Tony, a clean double-tap to the heart, while Michael’s pistol barked, Frankie’s head jerking back as he dropped lifeless to the floor.
The soldiers unleashed a storm of their own, muzzle flashes lighting the dark like lightning, bullets ripping through the traitors before they could even aim. Screams pierced the chaos, cut short as bodies fell, blood pooling dark and slick, swirling with the rain into the cracks of the earth.
“Move, move!” Faustino said, leading the men onward as they blasted every last one of the traitors with no mercy whatsoever. “They all die!”
It was over in a heartbeat. Brutal, efficient, absolute.
The traitors lay scattered, a grim mosaic of shattered rebellion, their game snuffed out before it could ignite.
Faustino stood, his breath heaving, the gun warm and dripping in his hand as he scanned the carnage. No twitch of life, no second chances… just silence, save for the rain on the cold, hard ground.
As he turned to Matteo and Michael, Faustino saw their faces streaked with water and resolve, a shared triumph in their eyes. The rebellion was quashed, stamped out in a hail of lead and fury.
The three Fendi Daddies… brothers forged in blood and battle… would reign unchallenged now, their grip on the family sealed in this wet, violent night.
Matteo wiped his face, holstering his weapon with a faint clink.
“It’s done,” Matteo said. “The family’s ours. For real this time. No one’s touching it again.”
