"These moans of yours, Zemira, they tend to tamper with my head. They're making my mind a haywire, 𝓜𝓸𝔂 𝓿𝓪𝓶𝓹𝓲𝓻." He whispered into my ear, sending shivers down my spine. His dominance was giving me power to show my dominance.
If he wants to...
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The wind. Playing by the rules of the wind is the first rule that we are taught to defy. We treat wind like a living being and in this game of mafia chess, wind is the manipulator. It's a rule, a fundamental principle passed down through generations like a sacred creed. To play by the rules of the wind is to surrender control, to submit to the whims of an invisible force that knows no allegiance and shows no mercy.
The mafia understands that to defy the wind is to defy fate itself. Yet , understanding it is of our highest concern. Predicting its next move like a seasoned detective unravelling a complex case is our job.
Zemira revved her bike along the coastal road toward Bari, the wind whipped through her hair. All of a sudden, from her open visor, I saw her eyes widen in alarm as she glanced over her shoulder. "Hold on tight, Canzone," she yelled, her voice tinged with urgency.
Bullets erupted from the barrels of their guns, tearing through the air as they unleashed a barrage of gunfire. "We need to lose them!" I shouted, my grip threatening on the handlebars as I increased the speed. Zemira nodded grimly, matching my speed.
I took a short glance at the cars behind only to find that they were approaching us dangerously close, now driving side by side. I look at Zemira, finding the shiny metal of her gun tucked inside her holster around her waist.
A smirk falls on my lips as I switch off the headlights of my bike. Zemira notices the action and tilts her head towards me, questioning me through her eyes. With no words, I just nod at her before she does the same with her lights.
On this chessboard, the wind is an ally to the Albanians. But, even the wind has eyes, and what is better than using the rook to blind the wind, turning the table in our favour. I knew our intercom systems had been compromised the moment the Albanians came into the picture. Without a word, I reached up, unfastening my helmet and tossing it onto the asphalt below. Zemira mirrored my actions, we didn't need words to convey the urgency.
Glancing back, I saw the headlights of Range Rovers drawing closer in the dark night. With a shared nod, we kicked our bikes into high gear. As I glanced at my phone, relief washed over as I spotted the notification.
"Zemira," I called out, my voice cutting through the rush of the air, "we've got a tunnel in 10 minutes. After that, we'll be on one bike. But first, we need to take out those headlights."
Zemira's eyes met mine, her expression determined as she nodded in understanding. Without hesitation, she reached for her gun, deftly manoeuvring her bike with one hand.
"Pull out your gun," I instructed, urgency lacing my voice. "We take out one car each. On my count."
As the Rovers closed in, their headlights pierced through the darkness, adrenaline surged through my veins as I steadied my grip on my own weapon. I aimed at the headlights of the car, while Zemira targeted the other.
