I wake up bound in the back of a black SUV and hear the city lights blur into one another as the driver speeds through the streets of the night and the man who destroyed my family wants me to help him the way I know I can help, but on his terms.

The satin of my wedding dress still sticks to my flesh as I regain consciousness. My wrists sting where the zip ties dug into my skin, and the air in the SUV tastes like oil and cigarette smoke. My chest closes around a thin finger of panic, but I make myself inhale slowly for five seconds and hold it for five seconds, over and over. My name is Isabella Rossi, and I am the daughter of a century’s old famiglia I think-run by blood, betrayal, and the iron nature of our family chain-locked by nothing else than iron, but my father had other ideas when he wanted me to marry the heir to another steel fortune, up until it all goes to hell.

Thankfully, the city’s lights outside smear into streaks while the car shrieks down an overpass, but I can still see the skyline: Lagos, my war-bred home. The reception hall, the rose petals, my sister Elena’s tear bright eyes — all of it was gone. Exchanged for the hum of an engine and two silent guards in the front.

I wrench my eyes off the window and look around me: cramped back seat, black leather, tinted glass. A twisted piece of linen lies forgotten at my feet – my veil. Half untangled, my pearls are draped over the seat beside me. Anything nice from tonight feels like proof of a life that’s been torn off.

“Just breathe,” I whisper under my breath. “Don’t panic.”

The doors don’t unlock. The locks don’t click. I test the zip ties again — too tight — and transfer my weight so I can get my ankles free. I’m Hands and Feet Bound, but Mind Is Alight: Who Could Have Pulled This Off So Neatly? The Salazar cartel? For months, they’ve been creeping into Rossi territory. Or one of the other families—say, the De Lucas, who have always been resentful of us ever since we found my parents’ mauled carcasses in that charred-out housing estate a decade ago.

The word, “Moretti” escapes me and chills my spine.

It flares up flashes of my old nightmares - my father’s parting breath, my mom’s eyes with the lights on and a boy—not any boy, Dante Moretti, standing at the edge of the bullet holed room. His face was expressionless then; I doubt it’s softened now. If so, it’ll be a victory.

The SUV slows. I get jostled forward so hard I nearly hit my head on the seat in front of me. My heart is a bloodpump in my side, rhythms of dread and rage running one through another. I mutter an Italian curse; though some small part of me wishes they can hear it, that they know the Rossi fire still burns.

The door behind the driver flings open and I’m pulled out of the car before I can get myself belted down to the floorboard. Panic flares as I make contact with the pavement, but strong hands seize my arms—iron cold leather gloves that force me into a darkened underground garage.

I am marched on two steps at a time. My gown blusters, frayed at the hem, grips thin-drawn ankles. With every step I’m reminded that the rest of my life has hinged on a twist of a lock.

A big elevator door swishes open; I’m pressed in, the lights coming on. Two men in black caps concealed their faces. I twist, trying to interpret their stance — machine-like, blank. They close the doors behind us. My skull vibrates with a low hum of ascending metal.

When I blink to the open doors, I find myself squinting against the bright opulence of a penthouse suite that looks like it was ripped right out of a luxury magazine. High gloss marble and floor-to-ceiling windows, and art—really expensive art—hanging perfectly flat on the walls. It all feels hideous, glamorous, and like my body is a bloody bird in a glass cage.

A man is at the window, his back to me, a silhouette cut by the moon. He must be 30, tall, broad-shouldered. His suit is cut with such precision, it could have been sprayed on. I know the posture — the certainty, full and final.

“Isabella Rossi,” says without turning, low as a promise or a threat. “You look… radiant.”

I flick my gaze to him. His raven hair is thick, textured, and ruffled (as if he just ran his hand through it). My pulse picks up. His name is Dante Moretti, and in one deep breath, I never forget a thing. The De Luca–Moretti war. My parents’ bodies. The massacre. The threats. The whispered reprise: Your family is dead; now we own the ruins.

“Don’t call me that,” I spit. “Dante Moretti. The last thing I want to see is you.”

Then he turns, and I have to catch my breath. His eyes are steel gray — glacial, unblinking. One side of his face is scarred, a faint line running from brow to cheek, as if to say, This is what happy ending looks like: past blood letting. He’s one-handed, the other resting nonchalantly in his pocket as he raises a glass of dark amber liquid.

“Straight to the point,” he mutters. “I like that.”

His eyes rake up and down me—my ripped-up dress, the bruise already darkening my wrist, the anger still flashing in my eyes. I swallow the ball of emotion in my throat and straighten my shoulders.

“What do you want?”

Dante edges closer, and my world reduces to the distance in feet between us. I raise my chin; a slight quiver in my jaw betrays my bravado. “Just kill me and get it over with.”

He smiles—slow, almost tender. “I didn’t bring you here to murder you, Isabella.”

I grit my teeth. “Then what—for sport?”

He shakes his head. “Business.” He places the glass on a black, sleek console. “Your fiancé, Luca Costello, worked for me.”

My stomach knots up so tight I almost throw up. “He—”

“Sold out your family secrets,” Dante inserts. “Terrain maps, bribe ledgers, every Rossi secret vault. And you thought your wedding present was a bunch of roses? That was my payment.”

I stare at him, mouthing words that won’t come. This can’t be real. This man had kidnapped me, removed me from the only home I ever had, burned my world to the ground, and now he was telling me Luca—my husband, the boy to whom I had been faking a marriage to keep my family safe—had been lying to me all along.

“You lie,” I growl, but my voice breaks.

He's pushing a slim tablet across the console and its screen is full of pictures: Luca swapping envelopes with the guards standing in front of Moretti, CCTV shots of him slipping into back alleys, documents bearing the stamps of Rossi and De Luca. I shake as I try to reach forward and touch it.

“Why?” I rasp. “Why would he—?”

“Because he was never your savior,” Dante explains. “He was your weakness.”

A hand on my shoulder whirls me around. The guard’s grip is iron. I stare into his empty gaze that holds nothing but the duty, no humanity. My heartbeat pounds through my ears. I know I have to buy time. I swallow the anger, looking for traction.

You think youve got me, I say, looking back into Dantes eyes. “But you don’t know me.”

He tilts his head, curious. “Try me.”

I swallow, muster every inch of Rossi pride into a ball in my throat. “You want something from me. My brains, my connections, my … fear. But you’ll never break me.”

His lips curve. “Good. Because I need you alive. “Your expertise in the old Rossi routes could stop the Salazar cartel at the knees.”

For a moment, a flicker of hope — revenge — jolts through me. The cartel has been closing in for months, elbowing its way here into our territory, obliterating everyone standing in its path. It is then that Dante’s offer falls into place: he wants an alliance. There was a way I could assist him — and myself.

I steady my voice. “What’s your offer?”

He backs up and holds out his hand for a good old-fashioned shake. The guard lets go of me, and I rub my wrist, where the zip tie had left its angry line on my skin.

“Help me take down Salazar,” Dante explains, “and I’ll help you get what you want: answers about your parents — and a chance to prove you deserve an empire.”

I look at his hand, then his face. I recall my father’s last words: Take care of this family. At any cost. And my mother’s belief in my strength. I’d always known my life wouldn’t be an ordinary one, but I never imagined anything like this.

My heart races as I take his hand. He takes my hand — and it’s a handshake that means something in the Gents.

“I’ll do it,” I whisper.

Dante’s eyes go soft — only a heartbeat — before the steel comes back. “Good. We move at dawn. Be ready.”

He turns, signaling the guard. They lead me away. The question flies through my head: Can I trust him? Is this a trap? But underneath it all is one scorching truth: I’ve sold my soul to the devil. Now I have to live up to it.

As the elevator doors slide shut, and my reflection in the glass reveals a bride reforged as a warrior — bloodied but unbroken.

And someone out there is a traitor, waiting to be revealed. I will not stop until I have my vengeance.”

Sunlight streams through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, cutting the light skirting around the polished marble floor in hard, golden strips. The distant hum of the city outside seems a universe away. I have slept — if you can call it that — in a silk‑lined guest room that more closely resembled a luxury suite than a prison cell. Rest, trust, acclimate were all on offer.

I didn’t.

My eyes opened before dawn. My mind was a blur of all the options: escape routes, security detail weak points, that spiral staircase I found last night. I pushed on the door — it was locked of course. But I had my rotations down of the guards now. 6 and all of Marco's men went off shift. Once the lock clicked, I had half an hour before I had to be ready.

I rose on shaking legs and put on clothes I pulled from the dresser: a plain black tee, skinny jeans, and boots — soft, black ones, practical, silent. My wedding dress was piled beside the chair, surreal proof of my old life. I stopped, my fingertips grazing the intricate lace. I swallowed, remembering: that girl died last night. I am Isabella Rossi, survivor.

There’s a soft tap on the door that startles me. I press back against the wall, my hand tightening around the doorknob. There is a click from the lock and the door opens an inch.

"Your turn," comes Dante's baritone rumble, dripping with insinuation. Only his eyes and that blade-sharp scar can be seen. He’s dressed in a tailored dark shirt and pants — no suit today, but still sharp, imposing.

“I am,” I say, and I shuffle out of the way to let him in. Marco is standing behind him, stolid, arms folded.

Dante surveys me coolly. “Good. We move in fifteen.”

Marco’s eyes dart to me, assessing. I lift my chin.

“Follow me,” I say, and I cannot miss the tone of that phrase.

A ghost of a smile from Dante surfaces. “Right this way.” He gestures down a long hall of modern art — cold abstracts that taunt me with their indecipherable shapes.

We take the elevator down to the basement. Behind the doors are corridors that have been styled to resemble a high‑end bunker: the steel walls, lacquered in obsidian, are illuminated by hidden LED strips that emit a murky light. Dante takes me to a steel door — he swipes a card and the panel goes live. The door whooshes open, and the light from a single overhead lamp illuminates a cavernous room: the map chamber.

My breath hitches. Floor‑to‑ceiling screens flash satellite images. Tables are littered with ancient leather‑bound ledgers, mounds of intel files, and — most importantly — a detailed relief map of Lagos and its surroundings, which includes a map scrawled with notes.

In the middle is Dante, crossing his arms. “This is where you come in.”

I step forward, heart pounding. My body involuntarily seizes when I see the map: the port docks we used to control, the trucking routes upon which we used to impose our taxes, the safehouses sprawled across the coastal highways. And now, it is all crisscrossed with red lines: Salazar supply chains, distribution hubs, transit corridors.

I swallow. “Your intel is impressive.” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Half these roads Rossi hasn’t touched in nearly a decade. The cartel has rebuilt them.”

Dante nods. “Which is why I’m coming to you for help. We focus on where they are weakest — because that is where their supply is most vulnerable.”

I scroll through the map: a cluster of sponge factories on the coast of Ajah, reached by snaking backroads through shantytowns; a dilapidated fish market transformed into a cartel fort; a hidden airstrip outside Lekki. I know them all. In those back alleys I’ve brokered deals; I’ve bribed those guards.

“Your people have info gaps,” I press on, gesturing at a wad of notes scribbled with chalk at the fish market. “They’re no longer getting the old bribe channels across Lagos Island. “Strike that supply drop and you cut off Salazar from his most significant distribution source.”

Dante takes a step closer, his breath hot on the back of my neck. “Show me.”

I slip my fingers beneath the edge of the table, lean in, draw lines on it with my finger on the map. My pulse races, my skin prickles where his shirt touches mine. I fight the urge to recoil. This is business.

I indicate a thin ribbon of road cutting through a residential neighborhood. Here old waterway tunnels go under those houses. Tainted city officials sealed them off to traffic but I know where the maintenance hatches are located. If you put surveillance there, the moment anything is shipped, you’re looking at it before it gets on a main road.”

He looks at the map like it’s a beloved painting. “Risky. If Salazar gets wind of this, they’ll murder everyone around.”

“Agreed,” I say. “But the option is they rush the city. You need leverage.”

Dante’s eyes flick to mine. He nods. “Do it. Overnight.”

My pulse thunders in my ears. “I will require two squads, unmarked cars, and a safe house near the hatch.”

He goes to reply, but hesitates. Marco takes a step closer, removing a palm-sized tablet from his jacket. He raps and hands it to Dante.

Dante looks and hands it to me. A pit sinks into my stomach as I read the file names: Rossi Safehouse — Ajah; Rossi Contacts — Underworld; Rossi Asset List — Confidential.

“They have you on the inside,” I say, jaw clenched. “How far have they probed?”

Marco answers before Dante can. “They know everybody who is important in your network. They have tabs on your side hustles. But not these tunnels.” He points at the map. “Not yet.”

I nod, face set. “Then we move fast.”

Dante is watching me with inscrutable, still silver eyes. “Think of this as your initiation test,” he whispers. “If you win, we go to the next phase.

My eyes meet his, firmness explodes in my eyes. “I won’t fail.”

He points at the map with a finger. “At 0600, teams depart. You will guide them. Now we find out what else you can do.”

The lights dim. My throat goes dry. Suddenly I’m painfully conscious of every thrum of my pulse, every breath. I’m in Dante’s world now, where his rules are the only rules.One wrong move and one gunshot will seal my fate.

I inhale, steadying myself. “Understood.”

Dante takes a step back, motioning for us to leave. I take one last look at the map, committing the backroads, plea points and sharps to memory. This is my opportunity for revenge — and my one chance at survival.

We go back up the elevator, reversing our steps. As the doors open I see the rotation of guards: Marco’s men are on time, luminescent IDs clipped to their chests. They nod to Dante and me and give us no sign at all. I understand that in Dante’s world, no one is actually friend or foe until they have earned it.

Back at the penthouse suite, the sun rises over the skyline. The city is stirring, not knowing enough of the war growing in its nooks and alleys. All shining towers and packed streets are threatening. I’m standing at the window, feet in boots on the cool marble floor, watching Lagos come to life.

There is a soft rap at the door and I am pulled from my thoughts. Marco enters, lugging a tray: two steaming mugs of black coffee and a plate of Nigerian puff‑puff.

He puts it on the ground in silence. I pick off a puff‑puff, bite in — sweet dough disappearing on your tongue. I down the last of my coffee in three long gulps, the bitterness cutting right through the adrenaline.

Dante comes up to the window also, a mug in hand. He sips from it and looks at me. His expression is incongruously soft, the sharp steely corners softened down a notch, and it’s unexpected.

“You did good,” he murmurs. “Not everyone could have latched onto our missing intel so quick.

I shrug, playing it cool. “It’s my past. I know where we’re vulnerable.”

He looks at me for what feels like centuries, and I am naked under his gaze. Finally, he nods. “Then you’ll be indispensable.”

Twisting in my stomach — part pride, part foreboding. To be indispensable to Dante Moretti is to be chained to a devil. But what choice do I have? On my own I’m a target; with him I might live — and I might kill the men who murdered my family.

He looks back at the city. “You and Marco are on your mission tomorrow. Tonight, rest. Get prepared mentally and physically.”

I set my mug down. “Rest. Right.” My voice is tight. “I’ll be ready.”

Marco collects the tray. Dante walks away, stopping at the dooR.

“Isabella,” he murmurs without turning around. “I know you want answers. They’re coming. But first we win the battle for the city streets.”

The door shuts behind him, leaving me with the dawn. I return to the window, stare at the skyline where my dreams used to live. Now it’s a battlefield.

My jaw tightens. Revenge lurks in the dark corners of those streets — and salvation does, too. I square my shoulders and I whisper into the empty room:

“Let them come.”

The moon rides low in the Lagos sky as I enter the ad hoc safehouse—down a dim corridor of a featureless apartment block two streets back from the old waterway hatch. The atmosphere is filled with the smell of dust and stale incense, a cumulative stink that hangs on the walls. Dante’s teams are assembling: 6 men in nondescript black fatigues, assault rifles slung, faces mean. Marco is positioned near a folding table that has been set up with night‑vision goggles, walkie‑talkies and hot cups of coffee steaming in the twilight.

I clear my throat. “Okay,” I say, with a steadiness that belies how shaky I really feel. “Listen up. We are here to intercept Salazar’s distribution channel before day breaks. I’ll lead you through the tunnels, but at no time must you get separated. No heroics.”

They nod curtly. Most one soldier’s eye — a tall, lanky kid, maybe fresh out of boot camp. I want to alert him, but I have no breath to spare. Instead, I adjust the strap on my own rifle and sling my backpack over one shoulder. Inside it? More ammo, a silenced gun, some smoke grenades, and Dante’s tablet with the map.

I approach Marco. "Your secondary units are in place?" I whisper.

He taps his earbud. “Three men, each hatch point. Tonight they’re eyes and ears — no contact unless they go bad.” His tone is clinical. “We’ll have backup in 20 minutes.”

I nod and tuck the tablet under my arm, heading off. The group streams into the corridor, heels clattering in the uncarpeted hallway. By the door to the stairwell I count four guards — the same as last night. My heart thumps but I remain impassive. I give a well-rehearsed flick of my wrist and nudge one of the slender panels concealed beside the woodgrain finish. The door clicks open.

We descend into near‑silence, following flickering emergency lights down three flights of stairs. The air is still and smells of rust and damp concrete. My heart races; every footstep echoes too loudly. The noose tightens with each hour beyond daylight.

At last, we come to a steel hatch on the floor. I drop to my knees, feel round the locks with my fingers and pull the release. The panel swings away, revealing the yawning mouth of the water tunnel: an ancient passage choked with decades’ worth of detritus. Wet pools of water gather at the sides, catching our torch beams like mercury.

I slide down first, clutching the cold metal with my arms, and splash myself in the ankle‑deep water beneath my boots. The men walk after, in single file, their rifles at their shoulders. I guide them into the tunnel, crouching in the low places where the ceiling's canted in, a skirt of darkness squeezing us in all around.

I radio, “Team A, breach point one. Keep watch. Team B, breach point two. Stand by for visual.” The sizzle of static confirms the message was received.

We travel fast, the tunnel winding under the local streets. Far above, the lights of private homes amalgamate into darkness. I have to stop thinking about whoever lives in those houses—sleeping, unaware of our transgression.

Ten minutes later I stop at a fork. Just three pipes, leaking slow drops from above. I raise up a gloved hand at the map, and then toward my lips—signalling to stop.

“Which direction?” murmurs one of Marco’s men, a burly bloke named Silva.

I point right. “Shortcut into the market warehouse. I realize its steel‑reinforced, but there’s a delivery chute we can break into from beneath. It “avoids the primary loading docks.”

Silva gives me a wary glance. “You sure it’s accessible?”

“Trust me.” I turn and feel the weight of their eyes. “Move.”

We enter the thinner arm of tunnel, and I point my flashlight downward. I sometimes slide on slippy concrete in my boots. My mind flies through all the childhood treks I ever made through these passageways: My father leading me by the hand, promising to reveal a secret cavern. Those days ended in blood and treachery. Here I was back, leading men with guns into the belly of the cartel’s structure.

And then we hear it: muted voices, Spanish accents. Then the sound of a metal door being unlocked. I stop, thumbs feeling out magazine releases on my rifle.

“Cartel scouts,” I hiss. “Two o’clock, thirty meters.”

The team fans out, weapons drawn. I make out seven figures — lean, armed, carrying crates. They haven’t seen us yet. Good. I press in closer, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure they can hear it.

Through the radio I murmur, “Wait for me to let you know. Keep them quiet - get them before they can signal for assistance.

I slide a smoke grenade off my belt. Filmy as a breath, I thumb the pin and roll it into the scout group. It clinks once, then hisses. At the very same moment, I yell, “NOW!”

The grenade lands among them, clanking off the ground as a dense cloud of white smoke billows through the corridor. And we shoot — muffled, the rounds blue-gray and measured. I witness bodies crumple, there is the sickly bounce of bullets off crates.

Chaos reigns. I run, feet sliding in inches of water. Another scout attempts to run further into the tunnel; Silva stops him with a burst from his rifle. Another takes aim with his weapon, but is shot in the head by Marco.

Within seconds, it’s over. The smoke rises in empty air; the bodies stay where they are. I sniff for gas—none. Good. We advance, guns sweeping.

I go over to the closest downed scout and kick his arm so that he lands on his back. He whimpers, his eyes wide in the smoke. I shake my head. “No time.” We need to move.

I gesture toward the ceiling in the opposite wall, in which a rusted, square panel hangs ajar. “There—chisels and pry bars.”

Silva and two other men pull the panel away, exposing a narrow chute that was lined with aged wooden boards. On the other side is the heart of the cartel’s contraband hub, where I can practically smell the opium and diesel.

We squeeze in single file. I just feel so… watched in this tight space. Vulnerable. But I swallow it down. I have a job to do.

One by one we emerge into a cavernous room: crates printed with Salazar’s mark, stacks of plastic jugs, burlap sacks bulging with god‑knows‑what. In the half‑light everything looks like a surreal painting. I pan my torch light around the warehouse – poison gas barrels, crates of plastic explosives for shipping up north, and in the middle of it all, a posse of Salazar's lieutenants tallying cash and crates.

My skin prickles. This is the nucleus. If Dante’s other teams can cripple the flow here, the cartel falls.

I kneel behind some crates and whisper into the radio, “Target confirmed. Lieutenant Vargas and four lieutenants. Two heavy crates. Start breach in five … four … three …”

The room shakes violently as smoke grenades are rolled in from the other side of the hatch (where Marco entered from). The lieutenants scream, rushing to grab their guns. My team starts shooting, and everything is momentarily reduced to a blaze of muzzle flash and the sound of screaming.

I lean out of cover, adrenaline pumping hard, harder than it has all match. I shoulder‑check a lieutenant as he dives toward his rifle, put him on his ass and send two rounds into his shoulder. He falls back, eyes terrified. The taste of gunpowder burns down my throat as I run to the next man, heart in my mouth. The operation I’m in charge of plays out and I’m right there: two of our guys smash through the primary doors, blocking off any means of egress from the room; the rest of the cartel guys stumble into room, blind-sided.

Three more breathless minutes, and it’s done. The lieutenants lie groaning; the weapons of Salazar’s men are stacked at the door like waste prizes. I check the scene—smoke drifting by crates, our men slapping on prisoners, the dead body of Vargas melting over barrels.

I remove the tablet from my bag and tap the screen: “Job done. Retrieving intel and casualties count. Extraction in ten.”

The men are silent now, tired but victorious. I realize that Silva is wiping his brow of sweat. His gaze finds mine, respect and relief in them. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe we might actually do it.

I stack up some ledger books and chipboard folders — delivery schedules, code names, financial sheets. Exactly what Dante needs. I slip them into my pack as the first pale fingers of dawn glimmer through high windows.

Then suddenly, alarms go off—a screeching, mechanical scream that rips through the air. My blood turns ice‑cold. A silent alarm of some kind was tripped — a crate sensor, a pressure plate, something of the sort.

I shout, “Move! Exit, now!”

We run back through the warehouse, past the crates and the bodies, retracing our steps toward the chute. But when I ease into its tight embrace, I hear a set of heavy steps and yelled curses coming up behind us. The rest of this cartel support — more than likely a couple of full squads — are beginning to rally to our position.

My chest tightens. We’re trapped.

I worm up to the hatch, force up the panel, and can close the hatches, levers scratching at metal. But something stops—wood planks are broken off from our previous escape. The hatch jams halfway.

I yank at it, panic rising. “Hurry!” I bark. “Get out!”

One of the men pushes by me, limping out of the tunnel. At last, the hatch relents, and I shut it behind me. I jump to my feet, landing on my knees, choking as bullets ping off the metal ceiling.

Heart hammering, I slither back into the tunnel. My teammates chase after me — wet water flying with every step. Marco comes running back down the fork of the path.

I grab his arm. “They’re behind us—fast.”

Marco aims his rifle at the mouth of the tunnel. His finger tenses on the trigger. “Cover fire. Move!”

We run, the tunnel’s twists and curves concealing our escape. I risk a look over my shoulder: six furious outlines block the entrance, guns drawn. They shoot a volley; I press my hot body to the cold wall of the blackout - a string of their bullets overhead.

I grind my teeth and step my legs up further. There is Marco, behind me, calling out azimuth to the secondaries. The hatch points will release a suppressive rain of fire in minutes and cease all cartel re-enforcements.

My boots slide, my rifle arm quivers. I remember Dante’s promise: answers. Revenge. Legacy. It’s what keeps me moving, through the dark tunnel, feet pounding the ground.

At the fork we tear past the left branch—toward the evacuation hatch near the apartment building. My lungs burn. My ears ring. I dare to hope we’ll make it.

One last burst of bullets clatters off the ceiling of the tunnel. Marco curses. “Almost there!”

And then we burst into the stairwell panting and charge up two flights to street level. The sun is too bright for me, hot and reaping. Fatigue crashes in every muscle. But I lurch forward, willing my legs to work.

At last, we arrive in a back street behind the safehouse. A convoy of unmarked vans comes peeling around the corner — our ride. The men file,” rather, pile in, doors banging. I sink into the back of the first van, toss off my pack, and slide down its wall.

The hatch closes. The warmth of the engine's hum beneath us. Tires squeal as the van peels off.

I close my eyes. My chest heaves. My heart is fit to burst.

Marco is crouched next to me, loading ammo into his gun. “You did good,” he says softly.

I look at the floor, my head spinning. “We lost two men.”

He nods. “Collateral.”

I swallow. “They were young.”

Marco looks me in the eyes — no pity, just the truth. “We win the war by paying the price.”

I close my eyes once more and think about that. I wanted revenge. I wanted power. I craved answers. But this — this brutal calculus — I’m still getting the hang of.

The convoy trundles through deserted streets on its way to Dante’s compound. Dawn steals like bloodshot glass across the city, staining the towers behind it pink. From this island, the skyline of Lagos seems tranquil and unaware of the violence that continues to churn below.

She throws my phone, and it passes through the open portal again before I stand up and dust myself off. I straighten out my jacket and continue to run my hand over my face, wiping off any sweat. No point in second-guesses; tomorrow we debrief, organize our next strike and move that much closer to Salazar's core.

And somewhere in Dante’s penthouse, he’ll be waiting — with offers and threats and replies I really don’t deserve.

And I brace myself for what’s next. For in the shadows and the gunfire of this world, only the strong are left standing.

And I plan to be heartless enough to follow through.