Twisted Loyalty

Chapter 18: End of the Line

Dante

The warehouse is dead silent, save for the faint creak of the old structure as the wind picks up outside. Nico and I exchange a glance, and he nods, signaling to the men. They move in silently, weapons drawn, shadows slipping between the cracks of dim light filtering through the broken windows. There's an electricity in the air, thick and charged with the anticipation of what's about to unfold.

This is the moment I've been waiting for.

Nico walks beside me, his eyes sharp, focused. I can see the faint glint of tension in his jaw, but he's steady. Always is. This isn't the first time we've had to clean up someone's mess, but tonight is different. Tonight, it's personal.

We move toward the main entrance, the heavy metal doors groaning as we push them open. The inside of the warehouse is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the floor, and I can see the remnants of Enzo's hideout scattered around—discarded furniture, empty liquor bottles, cigarette butts. The place smells like rot and desperation.

I keep my gun raised, eyes scanning every corner. Nico follows suit, our men fanning out behind us, making sure we're covered from all angles.

Then, we hear it—a faint scuffle of movement, coming from one of the back rooms.

I smirk. Got you, you rat.

Nico nods toward the source of the noise, and we move in slowly, silently. I can feel the adrenaline surging through me, but I keep it in check, every step deliberate. This is what I'm built for. Not the meetings, not the negotiations. This. The hunt. The kill.

We round the corner and see him. Enzo. Hunched behind a half-toppled stack of crates, his gun aimed in our direction. He's shaking, but he still tries to keep that smug grin on his face.

"Dante," he calls out, his voice laced with arrogance. "You really think you're gonna walk out of here alive?"

Before I can respond, he fires. The sound of the gunshot echoes through the warehouse, and I see Nico jerk back, clutching his arm. Blood seeps through his fingers, staining his sleeve. My heart races for a second, but Nico grits his teeth and waves me off.

"Go," Nico grunts, his voice strained but steady.

Enzo shoots again, but this time the bullet pings off one of the metal crates, missing me by inches. He pulls the trigger a few more times—click, click—but nothing. The dumb fuck's run out of ammo.

I step forward, my gun still raised, but I don't fire. Not yet. Instead, I take my time, moving toward him with slow, measured steps. Enzo stumbles back, tossing his gun aside in a fit of frustration, but the fear in his eyes betrays him.

"Out of bullets?" I ask, my voice dripping with mock sympathy.

I watch him try to put on that cocky grin, like he's still in control. But his hands are trembling, and the sweat on his forehead tells me everything I need to know—he's scared. No matter how much bravado he throws out, that fear is eating him alive. And it should be.

"Fuck you, Dante," he repeats, louder this time, like he thinks his words can mask the terror seeping through.

I step closer, the heavy sound of my boots echoing through the empty warehouse. I can feel the rage coiling inside me, tighter and tighter, the memories of Sienna—her shaking hands, her tear-streaked face—flashing in my mind like gasoline on fire. Enzo's mouth keeps moving, spewing insults, threats, but none of it matters. He doesn't understand that this moment right here? This is where his life ends. Slowly.

"You know what your problem is, Enzo?" I say, my voice soft, almost conversational, as I stop just a few feet from him. "You don't know when to shut the fuck up."