Chapter 37 Blood, Bullets and Business.

Chapter 37 Blood, Bullets and Business.
Aria’s POV

I raised the shotgun, blessed ammunition loaded and unforgiving. The convoy loomed larger, headlights tunneling through the storm like searchlights in a man-made apocalypse. Lucia cut left, sights on the lead escort. Enzo pushed forward, roaring straight into the heart of them.
The shrine bridge loomed ahead like a relic from another century, a narrow stone arch spanning a ravine swollen with runoff, rain hammering the surface into a slick mirror.
The lead escort truck lurched onto it first, tires fighting for grip on the wet cobblestones. Lucia was already in motion, her bike launching off a concealed dirt ramp she must have clocked during reconnaissance. She came down hard across the truck’s hood and the shotgun barrel pressed flush against the driver’s side window like a lover’s kiss.
The blast was deafening even in the storm. The front tire disintegrated in a violent spray of rubber shards and white smoke. The truck veered wildly, slammed into the ancient guardrail with a metallic screech and ground to a halt, engine coughing like a dying animal.
The driver threw his hands up in surrender, palms open and eyes wide. Smart. Lucia was already off the bike, kicking the door open and zip-tying his wrists before he could blink.
Enzo didn’t slow. He threaded the gap between the stalled lead and the middle truck with surgical precision, the bike leaning so far his knee scraped sparks off the asphalt.
I swung the shotgun forward, racking a round with a satisfying clack that cut through the thunder. The middle truck’s driver panicked and the brakes locked, tires screaming. The vehicle fishtailed, the rear end swinging out over the ravine before the driver overcorrected and slammed to a stop inches from the edge.
Doors flew open on both sides. Isabella Russo stepped out first, rain plastering her dark hair to her skull in thick ropes and there was a compact pistol steady in a two-handed grip.
Three armed men fanned out behind her, rifles raised, muzzles sweeping the storm. They were Luca’s black tactical gear and no insignia, the kind of muscle that didn’t ask questions.
Isabella’s eyes locked on me through the downpour. Recognition flashed, then something colder. She smiled, small and venomous, the kind of smile that promised slow deaths.
“You’re still alive,” she hissed, her voice carrying over the rain. “That’s exactly what he feared.”
I leveled the shotgun at her chest. Twenty feet. Point-blank for scattershot. My finger tightened on the trigger, the stock solid against my shoulder, rain dripping from the barrel. One squeeze and Isabella Russo would be a red mist in the storm.
Enzo’s hand closed over the barrel from the side, pushing it down with calm authority. He didn’t look at me, but seriously he didn't need to. “My field.” The message was silent but absolute.
The three escorts hesitated, rifles dipping a fraction. They knew that voice. Knew the reputation. Enzo Moretti didn’t shout orders; his people simply materialized and obeyed. Two shadows detached from the treeline on the far side of the bridge, men I hadn’t even seen until now and rifles trained on the escorts’ heads with red dots dancing on foreheads. Checkmate in seconds.
Isabella’s smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. “This is suicide, Enzo. Luca will...”
“Luca’s not here.” Enzo stepped forward into the headlights’ glare, rain streaming off his jacket like he was carved from the storm itself. “Drop it.”
Her pistol hit the wet asphalt with a dull clunk. The escorts followed suit, weapons clattering one by one. Enzo’s men moved in like ghosts, zip ties flashing, knees driven into backs and faces pressed to the ground. Efficient. Brutal. Professional.
I vaulted off the bike, boots splashing through puddles that reflected the lightning. The middle truck’s tarp flapped wildly in the wind, half-torn from its moorings.
I ripped it back with one hand, shotgun still in the other. Jennie was chained to a metal bench along the truck’s interior wall, wrists raw and bleeding where the cuffs had bitten deep.
Her face was a map of bruises and looked purple along the cheekbone, with a split lip crusted with dried blood, but her eyes burned with a fury that made her look older than her years. Maybe twenty, twenty-one.
Sharp cheekbones, Marco’s mouth and a tangle of dark hair matted with sweat and rain. When she saw me, she spat a mouthful of blood onto the floorboards and fixed me with a glare that could cut glass.
“Where’s my brother?” Her voice was hoarse but steady, every word a demand.
“Alive. For now.” I drew Enzo’s knife from my belt, the same one he’d used to cut Marco free hours ago and sliced through the chains with two sharp tugs. The links parted with a metallic snap. “Can you walk?”
She stood on shaky legs, swaying but refusing to lean on me. “I can run if it means getting away from you people.”
Lucia jogged up from the lead truck, shotgun dangling loose at her side, rain dripping from her braid. “Marco’s crashing hard. Septic shock. We needed those crates yesterday.”
Enzo was already at the truck’s rear doors, muscles straining as he yanked them open against the wind. Inside were stacked crates stamped with red medical crosses, antibiotics in bulk, bags of plasma and surgical kits sealed in sterile plastic and beneath them, something heavier: ledgers bound in black leather, their spines cracked with age, and a row of encrypted hard drives sealed in waterproof cases.
Isabella laughed from where Enzo’s men had forced her to her knees in the mud, zip-ties cutting into her wrists. “You think this is the prize? Luca’s playing chess while you steal pawns. Those ledgers? They’re the board.”
Enzo didn’t spare her a glance. He lifted a medical crate with a grunt and handed it to Lucia. “Safehouse. Go.”
The jeep rumbled up the bridge approach, with Enzo’s driver, a silent wall of a man named Vito who’d materialized from nowhere. Marco lay in the flatbed, skin the color of ash, lips tinged blue. Jennie climbed in beside him without hesitation, already tearing open an IV bag with her teeth and her hands moving with practiced efficiency.
I started toward the bike. Enzo caught my arm, fingers like iron. “You ride with me.”
No room for argument. No need. I swung on at his back, with my arms sliding round his waist and my fingers crossing and locking my hnads over his stomach. The engine roared to life beneath us, a beast eager for blood.
Isabella watched from the ground, rain mixing with the blood from her split lip. “You’re making a mistake,” she called over the storm. “He’ll burn Palermo to find her. To find all of you.”
Enzo's smile like winter itself. “Let him try. I own the ashes.”
We roared away from the bridge and the convoy’s wreckage smoked behind us in the rain. Lightning stitched the sky, illuminating the valley for a heartbeat, Monreale’s cathedral a distant golden coal and the route ahead of us, a black ribbon disappearing into the storm. The wolf was seriously hunting, but we had just stolen his bait.