His greatest love.

Chapter 21.

The operations room buzzed under dim fluorescent light, tension thick as steel cables. Maps, satellite feeds, and dossiers littered the long table where Detective Santos stood, eyes burning with conviction.

"This is the first time in over a decade we have the opportunity to nail Giovanni De Luca with evidence too big to bury," he said, voice sharp as a blade. "A shipment worth twenty million dollars hits the docks in three hours."

The room stilled.

"What's the shipment?" one officer asked evenly.

Santos' jaw tightened. "Weapons . Enough to arm an army. We have reason to believe the Italian Mafia runs an illegal training program—turning their people into soldiers."

"They're not better than us," a female agent said, calm but defiant.

"No," Santos shot back, "but they are dangerous. We fight by the law—count arrests, not bodies. They fight without rules. They leave no witnesses. Remember the Senator. The two Congressmen. That ambush in the desert was theirs."

A chill swept through the room. Memories of mangled convoys and burning steel flickered in their minds.

"Jesus Christ," someone muttered.

Santos slammed the table. "That's why this matters. We may never get another chance. Tonight, we cut the head off the snake."

The mission commander stepped forward, the room falling silent. His voice was low, clipped, every syllable measured like a countdown.

"Listen carefully. Alpha 1—you're our overwatch. Two snipers, one spotter. You set up high ground on Dock 12. Your eyes never leave the target area. If you see Eagle—Giovanni De Luca—or Drago—Matteo Perez—you mark and track. Do not engage unless I give the word. Copy?"

"Copy," came the steady reply.

He turned. "Alpha 2—you're the buffer. You stay mobile. If Alpha 3 gets pinned, you move. Suppression only. Keep them breathing until extraction. Clear?"

"Clear."

"Alpha 3—you're the breach team. Once Panda is called, you move in on Dock 17. Secure the shipment, secure the suspects. You are not there to play hero—you're there to hold ground until we can lock them. If you lose comms, you fall back. If you're cut off, you burn the cargo. No trophies, no evidence left behind. Understood?"

A hard silence. Then: "Understood."

The commander's gaze swept the room, heavy and grim. "These men aren't street thugs. They're trained, disciplined, and they won't hesitate. They fight like soldiers, not criminals. If you hesitate, you die. If you break formation, you die. If you think you're smarter than the plan—" his eyes landed on Santos, sharp as a blade—"you'll get my men killed. And I won't forgive that."

No one breathed.

"Final reminder: once the word Panda is called, this operation goes live. Until then—eyes open, safeties on. Tonight, we walk into the lion's den. The only way out is together. Clear?"

"CLEAR," the teams answered in unison, the word snapping like gunfire in the room.

They were then dismissed to prepare. When they were all done they went to the docks where they took their positions. They waited in silence as they observed containers being dropped off but minutes turned to hours and it was dark with still no sign of The Italian mafia.

"Are you sure this is the place?" the commander growled.

"My informant swore it," Santos muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.