Chapter 174 Rocco
The night tasted like metal: cold, bitter, and full of the kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. I stood at the edge of the old shipyard, hidden beneath the rusted shadows of stacked containers, and watched as fog curled to the ground like it knew what was to come. Every instinct in my body was razor-sharp. Every breath controlled, measured.
Camillo had taken the bait.
He always did, when pride clouded his judgment.
He was alive-barely-but the bastard was still moving, still clawing at the edges of our lives like a rabid dog desperate for one last bite. And tonight, finally, we were drawing the curtain closed.
To my left was Riccardo, crouched low, silent tension emanating from his frame. His healing leg didn't slow him-if anything, it made him more vicious. Rafael stood on my right, calm but simmering, eyes narrowed at the gate like he could see the bloodshed on the horizon already.
“The lookout just texted,” Riccardo murmured. “Two black SUVs. And a van. They’re pulling in now.”
“Right on schedule,” Rafael said, voice low, cold, deliberate. “Let’s end this.
I breathed in, allowing the sharp coastal wind to burn my lungs. This needed to be done. This was long past due. And Fiorella-my woman-deserved a world without this filth slinking around in the shadows, waiting to strike. She deserved peace. We all did.
"Positions!" I ordered.
Our men spread like shadows, slipping behind crates, onto elevated walkways, into the dark spaces where death watched unseen. We’d studied every inch of this shipyard. Every angle. Every blind spot. Camillo was walking into a nest of vipers and tonight we weren’t letting him slip out.
Engines rumbled through heavy air, headlights slicing across the concrete as SUVs rolled in. The doors opened. First out were six men, armed, twitchy, scanning the perimeter.
And then him.
Camillo.
He moved stiffly, gingerly, like every step tugged on half-healed wounds beneath that dark coat. His face was drawn, paler than the last time I saw him, jaw clenched from the lingering pain. But the fury in his eyes? That was untouched. Burning bright. Burning for us.
Limping forward, he wore a smirk.
“I know you’re here,” he called out into the shadows. “Come on out, brothers. Let’s finish this dance.”
Arrogant bastard.
But tonight… it worked in our favor.
Rafael stepped out first, revealing himself beneath the floodlight. Calm. Calculated. Deadly.
Riccardo followed, head tilted, knuckles tightening around the grip of his gun.
I walked out last, slowly, deliberately, my eyes locking directly with Camillo’s.
His smirk faltered.
“Rocco,” he rasped. “Still breathing, I see.”
“Unfortunately for you,” I replied. “But not for long.”
He chuckled, but it cracked in the middle. Pain. Good.
"You think this ends with me dying?"
“That’s the idea,” Riccardo shot back.
"No," Camillo said, raising his hand and snapping his fingers. "This ends how it should've ended years ago."
His men surged forward.
Our men answered in an instant.
Gunfire exploded through the air loud enough to make the metal walls shudder. Sparks flared as bullets ricocheted off containers. Men shouted and cursed and groaned as they hit the pavement. Smoke curled in thick plumes. The night erupted into violence.
I moved before thought caught up-ducking behind a crate, firing, advancing. Riccardo sprinted ahead like a predator unleashed, taking down two men with precision shots. Rafael stayed behind us, covering our blind spots with clinical accuracy.
Camillo's men kept pushing. Desperate. Reckless. Their movements sloppy, uncoordinated. They want to overwhelm, to swarm, but we had the ground. We had the plan.
Camillo hung back and watched, calculating, hand pressed lightly to his side where the bullet wound from weeks ago still lingered like a curse.
He wasn’t healed.
He wasn’t strong.
And for the first time… he looked unsure.
I almost smiled.
A man came at me with a knife. I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and then slammed his head into the container wall, disarming him, sending the blade straight into his thigh. He went down in an instant with a howl.
Another came; I shot him in the shoulder before he could get close.
Riccardo was fighting like a demon let loose, every swing of his arm powered by months of betrayal and tension. He slammed a man onto a crate, pressed his gun under his jaw, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
“You still breathing, Roc?” he shouted over the chaos.
“Unfortunately,” I shot back. “Save some for me.”
“I’m trying!”
Rafael moved ahead. “He’s going for the exit!”
Camillo was making his escape, limping rapidly between rows of containers, using what was left of his men as human shields. My anger flared up like a wildfire.
“Oh no you don’t.”
I chased him.
The boots slammed on the concrete. My heart was pounding, yet steady. The gunfire sounds behind me were fading as I tunneled in on his shape in the dark.
Camillo stumbled, grabbing hold of the metal siding, breath ragged. He turned at the sound of me, eyes wide, not with fear. With hatred so deep it was almost admiration.
“You just don’t stop,” he rasped.
“No,” I growled, “and I won’t until you’re gone.”
We lunged at the same time.
He swung a broken pipe at my head. I ducked, grabbed his injured arm, twisted it until he screamed. He elbowed my ribs with his good arm. I shoved him against a crate. He kneed me hard enough to knock wind from my lungs.
Pain shot through me but I kept going.
This wasn’t about pain anymore.
It was about ending the nightmare he'd dragged on every inch of our lives.
“You ruined everything,” Camillo spat, shoving at my chest. “You could’ve ruled beside me…”
"I'd rather die."
“You will.”
He drew a little knife from his sleeve and slashed. I dodged the first cut, felt the second graze my arm. I punched him across the jaw, my knuckles cracking against bone. He staggered.
“You’re weak,” I said. “Injured. Running.
“And still not dead,” he hissed.
Then he whistled.
Three more men burst from behind the container.
Shit.
I reached for my gun, but one tackled me, another swung a crowbar toward my throat, which I blocked with my forearm, gritting my teeth through the pain, while the third tried to go for my sidearm.
I slammed my forehead into his nose. Blood sprayed.
A shot from Riccardo's gun rang out, dropping the man on my back.
Rafael fired next, dropping the second.
I pushed off and fired the killing shot at the third.
Camillo turned to run.
“STOP!” I shouted.
He ignored me, limping faster as he dragged his wounded leg like dead weight.
“Rocco!” Rafael barked. “Leave him! The place is swarming.”
“No.”
I ran harder. Faster.
I saw the fear finally spark through Camillo’s eyes as he realized.
I wasn't stopping.
Not this time.
Not until I saw his blood on the floor.
He reached a ladder leading up to the catwalk. Tried to climb. His injured leg buckled.
I reached around and grabbed him by the back of his coat, slamming him down onto the metal grate.
He gasped, pain tearing through his body.
I pressed the barrel of my gun to his forehead.
"This is for every life you destroyed."
His lips twitched into a sick smile.
“Then pull the trigger.”
I hardened my jaw.
My finger tightened.
Then.
BOOM.
The entire container beside us exploded.
The ground shook.
Fire exploded upward with a burst of heat and metal.
I was thrown back, slamming against the railing. Smoke blinded me. My ears rang.
Through the haze
Camillo crawled backward, coughing, burned, terrified… but still alive.
And behind him.
More shadows are appearing.
More of his men.
Somewhere below me, Riccardo yelled my name.
Rafael shouted orders.
The fire spread.
The whole yard groaned, as if it was about to collapse.
Camillo’s voice cut through the chaos-raw, shaking, vicious: “This isn’t over, Rocco!”
Our eyes locked. He pulled a half-melted gun from his belt and aimed.
And my mind's screen went black as the noise swallowed everything.