Chapter 17 Chapter 17 – POV Matteo

Chapter 17 Chapter 17 – POV Matteo

The dawn hadn’t broken yet, but I was already awake. My body felt like it had aged a decade overnight, muscles tight, jaw clenched, and my mind spinning like the city outside my window. I could see the horizon beginning to pale, the first hints of sunlight slicing through the darkness, but I didn’t care about day or night. All I cared about was the fight that lay ahead.

Petrov wasn’t finished. He’d regrouped, he’d calculated, and he was dangerous—not just dangerous, but methodical. He’d lost this round at the warehouse, yes, but we’d hit him hard, and now the backlash was coming.

I stood at the edge of the balcony, watching the city below. Sirens screamed in the distance, and the smell of asphalt mixed with the early morning dew. My phone buzzed sharply in my pocket, pulling me back. Louis.

Status report.

I swiped it open.

Lieutenant confirmed. Petrov is moving assets. Expect a convoy within the hour. Security details are heavier than we anticipated.

My hands tightened around the railing. The word “convoy” triggered every instinct I had. That meant he was fleeing, reorganizing, securing something—probably a warehouse, a safe house, maybe even a shipment we didn’t know about yet.

“Louis,” I muttered, dialing him. “Get me the layout of the streets. Every escape route, every choke point, every alley he could use.”

Understood.

I ended the call and turned inside. Lilianna was in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, her gaze distant. She hadn’t slept either. I could see the worry etched into her every line, but there was also fire there—the same fire I’d come to depend on, the same fire that made her unstoppable in moments of chaos.

“Morning,” I said, voice low. She flinched slightly, then set the mug down, eyes meeting mine.

“Morning,” she replied, neutral, but I could see the tension coiled tight in her shoulders.

“We’ve got movement,” I said immediately. “Petrov is mobilizing. Convoy leaving… west side routes. We need to intercept.”

She stiffened. “West side?”

I nodded. “I need you here, Lilianna. Not in the car, not in the convoy. Here, with Callum. He’s our priority.”

Her gaze softened for a brief second. “I know.”

“Good,” I said. “We don’t get another chance to screw this up.”

Callum’s voice came then, small and uncertain, from the staircase. “Matteo?”

I turned, forcing a smile I didn’t feel. He was rubbing his eyes, dark curls falling into his face. His small hand clutched Lilianna’s, tethering himself to her as he always did.

“Morning, champ,” I said gently, crouching to his level. “You slept okay?”

He nodded, though the bags under his eyes betrayed him. “I missed you.”

My chest tightened. “I missed you too, little man. But we’re going to make sure nothing like last night ever happens again. Okay?”

He nodded again, small and solemn. I pulled him into a hug, feeling the weight of him against me, knowing that I had to keep him safe—always, no matter what.

I rose and turned to Lilianna. “Keep him close. Don’t let anyone near him except us. Understand?”

Her eyes locked with mine. “Understood.”

I didn’t wait for more. I moved to the garage where the convoy of cars waited. Louis, Marco, and the rest of the men were already there, engines humming quietly, weapons loaded, minds sharp. The air smelled of gasoline, leather, and tension—the smell of war.

“Situation,” I said, climbing into the lead car, the weight of command settling across my shoulders like a second skin.

Louis nodded, taking the passenger seat. “Convoy spotted. Eight vehicles. Two are armored. Route is clear, but Petrov’s got reinforcements spread along side streets.”

I flexed my fingers around the wheel. “We need them isolated. Force them into the tunnels under the bridge—cut off their support. Then we take them one by one.”

Marco, in the back seat, loaded his weapon. “We’re good, boss. Just say the word.”

I nodded, eyes flicking to the GPS route. Timing was everything. Every second mattered. If we moved too soon, he’d slip through our fingers. Too late, and he’d be prepared. And with Petrov, he was always prepared.

The city blurred past as we drove in silence, the only sound the steady hum of the engines and the occasional click of weapons being checked. My mind worked faster than the car moved—calculating, predicting, preparing.

The convoy came into view just as we hit the edge of the overpass. Two armored trucks, three SUVs, and three sedans—Petrov’s network was tight, organized. They were moving fast, confident that no one was ready for them. They didn’t know we were waiting.

“Positions,” I ordered, voice low, deadly. “Louis, flank left. Marco, right. I’ll take the lead and force them toward the tunnels. Engage only on my mark.”

We fell into place, sliding like shadows in the half-light of dawn. My pulse was steady, focused.

I gave the signal. The first SUV swerved, trying to avoid us, but the lead car blocked it, forcing it toward the tunnel entrance. The armored trucks followed instinctively, the convoy now compacted, predictable.

“Now,” I barked.

Gunfire erupted. The sound was deafening, echoing through the narrow streets. Sparks flew as bullets struck metal. I moved with precision, disabling the first vehicle, forcing its driver out with controlled aggression. Lilianna’s voice was in my head—calm, precise. Protect the convoy. Protect the weak points. Control the chaos.

I could hear her guiding my men, though she wasn’t even there. That voice, that fire, that intelligence—it was part of me now.

The first armored truck slowed, then stopped entirely. Reinforcements were pushing out from the side streets, but we were ready. Louis took down two men with surgical efficiency, Marco another. I was in the lead, taking the central armored vehicle.

The driver—a bulky man with Petrov’s tattoo on his forearm—tried to fight, but my hand was faster. A chokehold, a twist, and he was neutralized before he could scream.

I moved to the back of the truck, securing the cargo. Arms, drugs, cash—they’d be gone soon. But that wasn’t the point. The point was Petrov, and tonight, he would learn what it meant to cross me.

I could hear a shout from the second armored truck. He had a gun—a rookie move. But even rookies could hurt someone. I fired once, clean, disarming him. He went down without a sound, hands raised in surrender.

The sedans tried to break formation, but Marco and Louis were relentless. No one escaped. Petrov had planned, calculated, underestimated. Always the mistake.

We reached the tunnels under the bridge. The choke points were perfect. They were trapped. And I could see Petrov now—emerging from the final sedan, his eyes wide with recognition, anger, fear.

“You think you can touch me, Costello?” he spat.

I stepped forward, gun raised, unwavering. “I don’t think. I know.”

His men hesitated, unsure, faltering. That was all I needed. Precision. Control. Domination.

I moved fast, lethal, surgical. Each step, each shot, each movement was calculated. One by one, his men fell, disarmed, restrained. Petrov tried to run, but the tunnels were narrow, the walls close. I cornered him, hand gripping his shoulder, gun at his temple.

“Your empire is done,” I said. “Tonight. All of it. You have two choices: tell me everything, or you die here.”

His face twisted in rage, then fear. I could see it—the realization that he was truly trapped. That the Costello name, the Rossi legacy, was untouchable as long as I drew breath.

“I… I’ll talk,” he finally whispered, voice cracking.

I nodded once. Louis and Marco moved in, securing him.

Petrov was ours.

The convoy secured, the warehouse emptied, and the threat neutralized—for now—I felt the tension in my body slowly ebb. But even as relief tried to settle in, I couldn’t ignore the weight of the dawn. Lilianna. Callum. Waiting for me back at the brownstone. Alive, safe.

We drove back in silence, the city beginning to stir. The adrenaline faded, replaced by exhaustion, satisfaction, and the lingering awareness that this world we lived in was never forgiving. It was ours to control, and we controlled it—for now.

The moment we returned, I saw Lilianna standing on the steps, arms crossed, but her eyes—God, those eyes—soft with relief when they landed on me. Callum ran toward us, curls bouncing, little arms outstretched.

I scooped him up without hesitation, feeling the weight of him, the warmth, the fragility of this world pressed into my hands. Lilianna stepped close, resting a hand against my arm.

“Safe,” she whispered.

“For now,” I murmured, darkly. “But no one touches our family again. Not ever.”

Her lips met mine briefly, a soft, fleeting connection that carried more weight than anything else could. Fire, desire, trust—everything in that moment.

Tomorrow, we would plan again. Petrov would regroup, others would rise, but tonight, this fragile, fleeting moment of victory, of safety, of family—it was ours.

And in this world, right now, that was everything.