Chapter 39: CHAPTER 39 — POV Lilianna
Gunfire cracked through the night like the sky was splitting open.
The docks became a battlefield in seconds — bullets snapping past us, sparks bursting off metal containers, men screaming orders that were swallowed by the chaos.
And in the middle of it all… Matteo moved like he was born from war.
He took down two of Petrov’s men before I even processed where the shots came from. His grip was steady, movements precise despite still healing wounds. Every muzzle flash lit his jaw in sharp, ruthless angles.
I matched him step for step.
Not behind him.
Not sheltered by his shadow.
Beside him.
Because this war wasn’t his. It wasn’t mine.
It was ours.
“Left flank!” Louis shouted from behind a forklift. “They’re circling!”
I ducked as a bullet tore past my cheek, slicing a thin line of fire across my skin. Matteo saw it — and something violent snapped awake in him.
His next shot was clean, vicious, ending the man who had nearly taken me from him.
“Stay close,” he barked, breath rough.
“I am close,” I shot back, firing again. “Try to keep up.”
Even under gunfire, even bleeding, he huffed a laugh.
But then…
Something shifted.
A ripple through the carnage. A coldness sliding over my skin like an omen.
Matteo felt it too. His body went still beside me, eyes narrowing.
The air changed.
And then—
A door to a container creaked open across the clearing.
A man stepped out.
Tall, broad, wearing a long black coat that billowed like a shadow given form. The dock lights glinted off the silver ring on his finger — a serpent swallowing its tail.
The symbol of the Petrov Bratva.
Ivan Petrov himself.
Matteo exhaled slow, like a man finally facing the monster he’d hunted for years. “Found you,” he muttered.
Petrov smiled.
It wasn’t the smile of a man cornered.
It was the smile of a man who believed he’d already won.
He lifted a hand — a signal — and suddenly the gunfire stopped.
Just… stopped.
Like the entire world inhaled and held its breath.
My pulse hammered in the hollow silence that followed — heavy, dangerous, coiled.
Petrov stepped forward, boots clicking on the wet pavement.
“Costello,” he drawled in accented English. “You brought the princess. How touching.”
I stiffened, but Matteo moved slightly in front of me. Not blocking me — positioning.
A united front.
Petrov’s smile widened. “Though I admit, you surprised me. I thought the Genovese girl had more sense than to stand beside a dead man.”
Matteo’s grip flexed on his gun.
I touched his elbow.
A reminder.
Not yet.
Let him talk.
Petrov’s gaze slid to me. Cold. Intrusive. Like he was peeling back layers just to see how much it hurt.
“Did your father tell you, Lilianna?” he asked softly. “Before he died?”
My blood chilled. “Tell me what?”
“That the moment you were born,” Petrov said, “he offered you to me.”
What?
My stomach plummeted.
A hush fell around the dock. Even the men behind Petrov looked uneasy.
“He made a deal to end a war,” Petrov continued, tilting his head. “A marriage alliance. A future Bratva queen. You. In my home. At my side.”
Matteo growled low in his throat — a sound I’d never heard from him before. A sound that could shatter bone if given form.
“You’re lying,” I said, voice steady even as ice crept up my spine.
Petrov shrugged. “Believe what you wish. But your father died owing me a debt. And debts must be paid.”
My breathing stuttered.
A buried memory clawed up — my father’s voice on the night I ran from the Genovese house:
“There are things I’ve done… things you must never know…”
Matteo stepped forward. “She owes you nothing.”
Petrov’s eyes glittered with amusement.
“On the contrary. She owes me everything.”
Everything inside me twisted — anger, revulsion, betrayal. But before I could speak, Petrov lifted his chin.
“And I know what you’ve been hiding,” he said.
My heart stopped.
No.
No, he couldn’t—
His gaze slid to Matteo. “The boy.”
Matteo shifted — barely perceptible, but I felt it.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
Petrov’s lips curved. “You thought you could keep a child hidden from me? A Costello heir? A Genovese heir? That boy’s blood is more valuable than both your lives.”
Matteo raised his gun. Safety off. Ready to fire.
Petrov didn’t flinch. “Kill me, and my men slaughter every one of yours. And they go straight for the house next.”
My throat closed.
Callum.
Matteo’s voice was lethal. “You go near him, you die badly.”
“I already plan to,” Petrov said. “But first—”
He snapped his fingers.
Two of his men dragged something — a person — from behind a stack of crates. Bound. Hooded. Knees scraping against the concrete.
My stomach twisted.
No.
No — God, no.
Because even blindfolded, even bloodied, even limp…
I knew that coat.
That tattoo.
Those hands.
Arman.
Matteo froze beside me.
Louis swore under his breath. “What the hell—”
Petrov yanked the hood off Arman’s head.
He looked barely conscious — face bruised, lip split, blood trickling from a cut above his brow. But his eyes…
They burned with guilt.
With truth.
My chest constricted until I could barely breathe. “Arman… why?”
He swallowed, throat working. When he spoke, his voice cracked.
“Because I had no choice.”
Matteo’s voice was a blade. “You always have a choice.”
Arman’s eyes flickered to him — shame, pain, regret twisted together.
“Petrov has my sister,” he rasped. “My baby sister, Matteo. He sent me a picture. She was screaming. I tried to warn you. I tried—”
Petrov slammed a gun against Arman’s temple. Arman stiffened.
“Touching, isn’t it?” Petrov said mildly. “He fed me information for months. Your movements. Your deals. Your safehouses.”
My breath stopped.
Matteo’s jaw locked so tight I heard the crack. “You put Lilianna and my son in danger.”
Arman’s voice shattered.
“I know.”
Matteo raised his gun.
“No!” I grabbed Matteo’s arm. “Not like this. Not while Petrov is—”
BANG.
Matteo fired.
The bullet tore through Petrov’s arm — not Arman. Petrov staggered back, roaring in pain.
Chaos detonated instantly.
Gunfire erupted from every direction. Men dove for cover. Louis tackled me behind a stack of crates while Matteo sprinted straight toward Petrov like a demon unleashed.
“Matteo!” I screamed.
He didn’t hear me — or he did, and didn’t care.
He was gone, swallowed by the storm of violence.
I tried to follow, but Louis grabbed my vest and yanked me down as bullets ripped overhead. “Not yet!”
“We can’t let Petrov escape!”
“He won’t,” Louis grunted. “Matteo’s locked onto him. He won’t stop until Petrov is dead.”
A flash of movement drew my attention — Arman, struggling to crawl behind cover, still tied, still bleeding. Every instinct in me warred — the betrayal, the sympathy, the fury, the truth.
But the battlefield doesn’t care about feelings.
I ran to him anyway.
“Hold still,” I snapped, cutting the restraints with a knife Louis slid to me. “You’re an idiot.”
His eyes filled. “I’m sorry, Lilianna. I never wanted—”
“Save it. Get up.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes,” I snarled. “You can. Or you die here.”
Somehow, he pushed to his feet.
Chaos exploded around us — screams, gunfire, metal groaning as explosions tore through containers. The docks became a maze of smoke and fire.
But Matteo was nowhere.
“Louis!” I shouted. “Find him!”
Louis nodded, radioing commands as Costello and Genovese men surged forward.
A sudden scream pierced the air — sharp, raw, cut off too fast.
Louis swore. “That’s him—move!”
We ran.
Past fallen bodies. Past burning crates. Past smoking debris.
And then—
We found them.
Matteo and Petrov.
Locked in brutal hand-to-hand combat inside the shell of an overturned container. Blood smeared the steel walls. Their movements were savage, fueled by years of hatred.
Petrov slammed Matteo into the wall.
Matteo drove a knife into Petrov’s thigh.
Both men roared.
I raised my gun—
“Wait!” Arman grabbed my arm. “You’ll hit Matteo!”
Matteo staggered as Petrov’s arm wrapped around his throat.
Petrov snarled, “I’ll kill you—then your woman—then your son—”
Matteo’s eyes snapped open.
And I saw it.
The shift.
The darkness.
The storm.
He tore Petrov’s arm away, slammed his head into the steel, and drove his knee into Petrov’s ribs with a crack that echoed through the container.
Petrov collapsed.
Matteo didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed Petrov by the collar and pressed his gun between his eyes.
“You should’ve never touched my family.”
BANG.
Petrov’s body went still.
It was over.
The war — the one that hunted us, haunted us, nearly destroyed us — ended with a single bullet.
Matteo stood over the body, chest heaving, drenched in blood and rain and vengeance.
I walked to him slowly, heart shaking, lungs burning. He didn’t look at Petrov’s corpse.
He looked at me.
And when I reached him, he cupped the back of my neck and pressed his forehead to mine, shaking.
“It’s done,” he rasped. “He’s gone.”
But the relief didn’t come.
Because ending one war doesn’t stop another from beginning.
And as the docks burned around us, I felt it:
Something darker was coming.
Something bigger.
Something none of us were ready for.