Run or Die

POV: Vittoria

The exact moment Dante broke from our shredded cover, I pushed out right behind him. The world dissolved into a storm of deafening noise and flying lead. Dozens of bullets cut viciously through the cold night air, ripping through the metal siding of the rusted cars and chipping the concrete around our boots. Jagged sparks flew into the dark, illuminating the dirty, rain-slicked pavement. Fear had no place here in this dockyard. Panic was a weakness reserved for civilians. Out here, with the sharp stench of gunpowder burning my nostrils, survival relied on primal instinct, ruthless precision, and the thick metallic scent of blood already pooling on the asphalt.

I fluidly raised my weapon and fired three rapid, deafening shots into the drifting smoke. I felt the sharp kick of recoil travel up my arm, anchoring me to the present. I watched with grim satisfaction as the muzzle flash illuminated the shifting shadows, registering the heavy, wet thud as my targets dropped to the ground. A heavy-set man wearing a dark mask let out a choked gasp, his knees buckling as my bullet cratered his chest. The second target staggered backward under the kinetic force of the round, clutching his ruined side before collapsing against a towering blue shipping container. The third went down in a twisted heap, motionless in the dirt.

Dante moved beside me like a lethal shadow. He was a terrifying force of nature, ruthlessly erasing armed men before they even fully comprehended he was coming for them. His weapon spat fire in tight, controlled bursts. I watched two more bodies crumple to the pavement in his wake, their weapons clattering uselessly against the stone.

A desperate attacker rushed me from a blind spot. Light glinted off the serrated edge of a hunting knife aimed straight for my ribs. I smoothly sidestepped the incoming blade and grabbed his outstretched wrist. I twisted his arm back with a sharp, sickening snap that echoed over the ringing in my ears. He opened his mouth to howl in agony, but I brutally drove the heavy steel butt of my handgun directly into his temple. His eyes rolled back into his skull. He dropped instantly to the pavement and did not move again.

I kept my gun raised, sweeping the muzzle across the narrow corridor of stacked containers. "Five down."

A sharp, brutal cracking noise sounded from the darkness to my right. Dante stepped out into the dim yellow glow of a flickering floodlight, stepping over a lifeless heap. "Six."

Only two hesitation-filled, terrified attackers remained standing. They hovered at the edge of the light, their weapons wavering. Seeing the slaughter of their squad broke their fragile resolve. One of them broke rank, turned on his heel, and bolted frantically into the deep shadows of the shipping containers.

Dante immediately raised his weapon to end him, tracking the man's fleeing silhouette with deadly intent.

I reached out and forcefully grabbed his warm, corded wrist, pushing the smoking barrel toward the ground. "Leave him. Let him run. We need someone left alive to report back."

The final remaining fool was not nearly as smart as his fleeing comrade. He let out a desperate, guttural cry and lunged directly at me, raising his submachine gun in a last-ditch effort for glory.

I did not even blink. I raised my gun and shot him perfectly between the eyes. His momentum carried him forward another step before his body crumpled instantly into a pathetic pile at my boots.

Heavy silence slammed back down onto the docks, broken only by the hiss of steam from a punctured radiator and the distant, wailing sirens of law enforcement bleeding into the night. We were out of time. The police would flood this zone in a matter of minutes.

I calmly pulled out my encrypted phone, ignoring the fresh blood smeared across my knuckles, and hit the speed dial for my father. Vincenzo D'Amore picked up on the second ring.

"There was another massive attack. We handled it." I boldly bypassed any familial pleasantries, delivering the tactical report with icy detachment.

"Are you hurt?" His voice came through the speaker tight with sudden stress.

I glanced down at my shoulder. A damp red patch spotted the fabric of my shirt. An old wound had torn open during the heavy recoil, sending a dull throb through my muscles. It was annoying, but nothing fatal. "No. Not this time."

A long, heavy exhale filled the electronic line. "Come home immediately. We talk now."

The line went dead.

I tucked the phone away and turned back to Dante. "This isn't over."

He wiped a streak of blood off his jaw, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "It never is."

I left him standing in the gloom, staring at the carnage. He had his own mess to report back to, and I had mine. The wail of the sirens grew louder, a mechanical shriek echoing off the concrete structures. I stepped over a corpse, got into an unmarked, armored SUV parked a block away, and peeled out of the dockyard mere seconds before the red and blue flashing lights crested the horizon.

The drive back to the estate passed in a blur of glowing streetlights and shadowy alleys. My mind raced, cataloging the tactical gear the attackers wore, the lack of identifying tattoos, and the sheer synchronization of their ambush. The adrenaline crash left a bitter, metallic taste on my tongue.

The intricate iron gates of the D'Amore estate loomed out of the fog, opening smoothly to let my vehicle pass into the sprawling courtyard. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter with restless energy, their assault rifles slung low against their chests, breath pluming in the cold night air. I parked near the stone steps and headed straight for the study.

My father was waiting. Vincenzo D'Amore rarely let his iron-clad composure slip, but tonight, an immense fury simmered dangerously close to the surface. He stood near the grand fireplace, the flickering flames casting harsh shadows over his weathered features. His sharp, calculating gaze flicked straight past my face and landed on the fresh, bloody bandage peeking through my torn shirt.

"This wouldn’t have happened if you had more of our men watching your back in the field." He crossed his arms, his jaw set in a rigid line.

I tossed my empty gun onto the mahogany desk and met his glare head-on. "I am my own protection. I do not need a babysitting detail trailing my every move and drawing unnecessary attention."

He exhaled sharply and rubbed his scarred jaw in evident frustration. "You are stubborn like your mother. This is not a request, Vittoria. I am doubling your personal security detail starting tonight. This is final. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me."

I bristled, ready to tear into a fierce debate about syndicate strategy, low-profile tactical advantages, and operational security. I could end up fighting him all night on troop deployments. But when I looked closely at his face, I saw the raw, paternal desperation masking his usual demanding demeanor. He was not ordering a mafia soldier. He was trying to shield his only daughter from an unseen threat.

I looked away first and conceded the minor battle, the fight draining out of my posture. "Fine."

His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. He nodded once, then pivoted toward the sprawling, detailed map of our massive territories pinned to the far wall. The map was a sea of colored pins, representing fortified strongholds, rival turf, underground casinos, and vulnerable maritime supply lines. I stepped up beside him, tracing a finger over the supply routes near the east docks.

We searched for whoever possessed the immense manpower, the untraceable funding, and the sheer audacity to put a massive target on my back. We meticulously went through every single known enemy. We analyzed the Russian bratva cells operating on the west coast, looking for signs of forceful expansion. We considered the lingering, bitter remnants of the Falcone family, mourning their lost patriarch. We even debated the rogue cartel brokers who felt snubbed on the last maritime weapons shipment.

Nothing fit the profile. None of the usual suspects possessed the tactical coordination we saw at the docks tonight.

Whoever was orchestrating this assault was not following standard mafia patterns. They hit hard, they hit fast, and they utilized military-grade flanking maneuvers. It was not just business anymore. It felt deeply, unsettlingly personal.

A sudden, frantic knock on the heavy oak door shattered the quiet of the study.

Both of us instantly reached for our holstered weapons. My hand gripped the familiar grip of my spare gun before the door even swung open.

A pale, sweating security guard stepped tentatively inside the room. His eyes darted nervously between my father and me.

"We have a major problem, Don Vincenzo. The dead body of one of the men who attacked you tonight at the docks… He is gone."

A cold, heavy weight settled deep into the pit of my stomach. My grip on the gun tightened. Dead men did not just stand up and walk away from a grimy crime scene. Removing a corpse from a hot zone crawling with police required astonishing precision. Someone extremely careful, highly connected, and incredibly fast was cleaning up the physical evidence. They were meticulously covering their bloody tracks before we could trace the bodies back to a supplier or a specific faction.

My father did not move a single muscle, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Who took him?"

The guard trembled, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple. "We do not know, sir. The body was secured by our men. We established a perimeter. But somehow... he was just gone when the cleaners arrived to scrub the site."

The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

I tilted my head and walked slowly toward the shivering guard. My leather boots made no sound against the thick Persian rug, but my approach made him flinch. My voice came out smooth and deadly, like the unyielding edge of a fresh knife. "Tell me something, Hugo. Are you incompetent, or just unlucky tonight?"

He stiffened in raw terror, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. "Miss D'Amore, I swear on my life, we had eyes on the perimeter. The men were securing the outer gates—"

I cut him off, indifferent to his weak, stammering excuses. "I want names. I want every single piece of security feed from that alley, every single car that passed through the toll booths, every damn shadow that so much as blinked in the wrong direction. Pull the traffic cameras, the local ATM cameras, everything. Do you understand me?"

The guard bowed his head frantically, eager to escape my line of sight. "Yes, ma'am. Right away. I will get the tech team on it immediately."

I dismissed the terrified guard with a sharp flick of my wrist.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, trapping the suffocating silence back inside the study. I turned back to the sprawling map on the wall. This was not a standard rival leaving bodies in the streets as a grisly warning or a twisted show of force. This was a sophisticated enemy who wanted no physical trace left behind. This was an entity that did not want us digging into their covert operations, a ghost hunting in the shadows.

My father picked up an expensive Cuban cigar from the polished wooden humidor on his desk. He rolled it between his calloused fingers, clipped the end, and slowly lit it with remarkably steady hands. A thick cloud of blue smoke drifted toward the vaulted ceiling, carrying the rich, earthy scent of tobacco. "Whoever did this isn’t finished."

I slowly met his hardened gaze. A slow, dark smirk curled the corners of my lips as I pressed my palms flat against the cool, polished surface of the mahogany table, the thrill of the incoming war overriding my exhaustion. "I know. And when I finally find out who they are? I am going to make them pay in blood."