Chapter 17 Ren
Ren
“Fuck!” I hiss. “Amelia. You have to keep your eyes open, okay?”
My hand presses harder against the gunshot wound. Warm blood seeps through my fingers no matter how much pressure I apply. Too much. Way too much. Her skin feels cold under my palm.
At this rate, she will not make it.
“Why didn’t you wear a damn Kevlar!” I growl, panic clawing up my throat.
Her lashes flutter. Barely.
The shots do not stop. They crack through the air, sharp and violent. Bullets ricochet off metal and concrete, screaming past us. One hits close enough that sparks fly into my face.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
There is no way I can keep her conscious while also making sure I do not get shot in my goddamn face. This is chaos. Pure chaos.
Another shot whizzes past my ear. Too close. I feel the heat of it.
I look up.
Catwalk. High ground.
The sniper.
The same bastard who put a bullet in her.
“Son of a bitch,” I hiss.
I glance back down at Amelia. Her face is pale now. Not pale like tired. Pale like blood leaving her body too fast. Her lips are losing color. Her breathing is shallow.
I look around quickly.
We are losing.
Bodies on our side. Too many. Recruits down. Some crawling. Some not moving at all. Smoke hangs thick in the air. Shouting. Screaming. Orders overlapping into noise.
We are being pushed back.
I hate losing.
I do not care which side I am on. I hate it all the same.
I never wanted this. I never wanted to hit the Russian mob like this. This was supposed to be training. Controlled. Contained. Instead it is a slaughter.
But right now, I do not have a choice.
They do not know who I am. They do not know Ren Moretti. All they see is another soldier in uniform. Another target.
“Medic!” I shout. “The Captain is down! She’s losing a lot of blood! I need a goddamn medic!”
Nothing.
No answer.
No footsteps.
One second passes.
Two.
Three.
My chest tightens.
They are either pinned down or dead.
Great.
Just fucking great.
I grit my teeth and make a decision I was hoping I would not have to make tonight.
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial.
It rings once.
Twice.
“This better be good, Ren,” Matteo groans through the phone. I can hear sheets rustling. Sleep in his voice.
“Get your fucking ass out of bed,” I snap. “I need backup. Now.”
Silence.
Then I hear him sit up.
“What happened?” he asks, all sleep gone. “Were you ambushed?”
“The army decided to go after the Russian mob. Krovavye Volki.”
“Fucking hell.”
Gunfire cracks so close that I flinch.
“How fast can you get here?” I ask.
“Send your location,” he says instantly. “I’ll track it.”
I send it without hesitation.
“Five minutes. Tops.”
“Good,” I say. “Bring the men. Masks on. I am not starting a war tonight. Bring a medic team. Captain Russo was shot and she’s bleeding out.”
I pause, glance down at Amelia.
“And try to get here in three minutes.”
I end the call.
My location is compromised now. Staying still is suicide.
“I’m moving you,” I mutter to Amelia. “You don’t get a say in this.”
I slide an arm under her knees and another around her back. She makes a weak sound as I lift her.
“I know,” I whisper. “I know. I hate this too.”
I dive for cover, rolling hard behind a stack of crates. Bullets slam into the metal where we were seconds ago.
I keep her body shielded with mine.
Something in me snaps.
I did not want to shoot them. Not like this. Not tonight.
But now I am pissed.
I peek out just enough to line up the shot.
The sniper shifts again.
I steady my aim.
One breath.
One pull.
I fire.
The bullet hits clean between his eyes.
He drops backward without a sound.
My first kill of the night.
I don't feel good about it.
I don't feel bad either.
I move again, faster now. Low and ontrolled. Every motion sharp. I shoot to clear paths, to force space. Men shout in Russian. Someone screams orders. Someone screams in pain.
A bullet grazes my shoulder. I barely feel it.
All I can see is Amelia’s face.
“Stay awake,” I tell her. “You still owe me an argument.”
Her head tilts slightly. Her lips part.
“Still… bossy,” she whispers.
I laugh, breathless and broken. “You love it.”
I slide behind another crate and press my hand to her wound again. Blood. Still bleeding.
Too much.
I rip fabric from my sleeve and press it down hard.
“Do not you dare die,” I mutter. “I swear, if you do, I will drag you back just to yell at you.”
Footsteps pound closer.
Russian voices.
Too close.
I rise, firing without hesitation. Two men go down. Another ducks. Another retreats.
Then I hear it.
Engines.
Multiple.
Fast.
I look toward the entrance just as masked figures flood in like shadows. Black gear. Familiar movement. Efficient and brutal.
Matteo does not waste time.
The tide turns in seconds.
Russian men fall back, surprised, disorganized. My people do not hesitate. They never do.
A medic skids to my side immediately.
“She’s critical,” I say. “Do not let her die.”
He nods, already working.
I step back, hands shaking now that I am no longer holding her together.
I look at her one last time as the medic begins to attend to her.
Blood stains the floor beneath her.
Too much blood.
My jaw tightens.
This is not over.
Not even close.
I don't slow down.
I move forward and I shoot.
Again.
And again.
Every Russian mobster that steps into my line of sight goes down. Clean shots. Fast shots. Without hesitation. My men spread out behind me like a wave of shadows, masks on, movements sharp and fast. This is our element. Close quarters. Chaos. Taking control by force and whatever means necessary.
The sound of gunfire changes.
Krovavye Volki did not expect this. I can see it in the way they stumble back, shouting orders too late, firing wildly. Their formation breaks. Their confidence cracks.
Good.
An officer near the entrance stares at us like we just crawled out of hell.
“What the hell—” he starts.
“Move it!” I yell, snapping his brain back into his skull.
He flinches, then nods fast. Within seconds, the surviving officers regroup and open fire again. Confusion turns into momentum. Momentum turns into an advantage.
I take point without thinking.
“Left side!” I shout. “They’re trying to flank through the loading bay!”
Matteo’s voice cuts in through the noise. Calm. Annoyingly calm. “Already handled. You’re welcome.”
I snort and fire again. “Try not to die. I hate paperwork.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. “You’re adorable when you’re stressed.”
A Russian mobster rushes from behind a crate. I put him down before he takes three steps.
Another one ducks behind a forklift. I roll low, pop up, and fire. He drops his weapon and goes down screaming. Alive.
“Lucky day,” I mutter. “You get to answer questions.”
I kick his gun away and move on.
The warehouse turns into a maze of smoke and echoing gunfire. My boots pound against concrete slick with spilled oil and blood. I don't look down. I don't count the bodies. I only move forward.
Every second matters.
My mind keeps snapping back to Amelia. Pale. Still. Bleeding out on the floor while I held her together with shaking hands.
Anger burns hot in my chest.
I channel it into my trigger finger.
“Push them back!” I bark. “No mercy but no stupidity either!”
One of my men slides beside me. Masked. His eyes sharp. “Boss, they’re retreating toward the offices.”
“Let them,” I say. “Then cut them off.”
He grins behind the mask. “Always loved your style.”
We advance fast.
Russian voices shout in panic now. Orders overlap. Someone yells for backup. Too late.
A mobster fires blindly from behind a desk. I dive sideways, roll, come up on one knee, and shoot. He drops out of sight.
Matteo appears at my side, reloading smoothly. “You look like hell.”
I glance at him. “You look like you came dressed for a funeral.”
“Yours or theirs?” he asks.
“Theirs,” I say, firing again. “Mine’s scheduled later.”
He snorts and moves ahead, taking down two more with clean shots.
The officers follow us now. Still confused. Still shocked. But alive.
One of them shouts, “Who the hell are you people?”
I do not answer.
Another mobster tries to rush the stairs. I catch him mid-step.
“Clear!” I shout.
My men spread out. Rooms are swept. Corners checked. No wasted motion.
The last of Krovavye Volki break and run.
Bad choice.
We hunt them down between shelves and offices. Every attempt to hide fails. Every ambush gets shut down before it starts.
The gunfire finally slows.
Then stops.
Silence crashes down hard.
Smoke hangs thick in the air. Bodies everywhere. Broken weapons. Blood streaks across the concrete.
My chest rises and falls hard.
I lower my weapon.
Matteo steps closer. “It’s done.”
I nod once.
The officers stare at us openly now. Fear. Awe. Questions they do not dare ask.
One of them swallows and looks at me. “Captain Russo?”
My jaw tightens.
“She’s alive,” I say. I hope. “And if she isn’t, this place won’t be the only thing burning tonight.”
Matteo places a hand on my shoulder. Firm. Grounding. “The medic team has her. She’s still breathing.”
That is the first time I allow myself to breathe properly.
I rake a hand through my hair, blood and sweat streaking my fingers.
I look around the warehouse one last time.
Krovavye Volki picked the wrong night.
And they have no idea what they just started.
I slide behind cover again and drop back to Amelia’s side.
“Hey, Captain,” I murmur. “You’re going to hate this part.”
Her eyes find mine. Barely.
I smirk. It costs effort. “You owe me a drink after this. Or five. I am not carrying you out for free.”
Her lips twitch.
Good. Stay awake.
Another explosion rocks the far end of the warehouse. Someone yells Matteo’s name.
My spine stiffens.
Matteo.
I glance up just in time to see him vault over a crate, moving fast, brutal, efficient. His eyes meet mine for half a second.
Underboss to boss.
He understands instantly.
He takes over without a word.
I look back down at Amelia.
Blood still seeps between the medic’s fingers.
Too slow.
“Wrap it,” I say. “We move her now.”
“We’re still under fire,” the medic protests.
I lean closer, voice dropping.
“So help me God,” I say quietly, “if she bleeds out because you hesitate, I will personally explain my displeasure to you in ways you will not enjoy.”
He swallows and nods.
I lift Amelia carefully. She is lighter than she should be. That terrifies me.
Her head lolls against my chest.
“No sleeping,” I say. “I mean it.”
Her breath brushes my collarbone. Weak. Still there.
We move.
Shots crack behind us. Matteo and the others hold the line. I feel eyes on my back. Enemies. Allies. I do not care.
Every step feels like it takes years.
“Luca,” Amelia whispers.
I freeze.
“I’m here,” I say instantly.
She frowns, unfocused. “You’re annoying.”
I laugh. It comes out sharp and broken. “You noticed now?”
Her fingers curl weakly into my shirt.
That nearly kills me.
We burst out into the cold night. Floodlights blind me. Someone shouts for evac. Doors slam open.
I lay her down inside the transport and climb in with her.
The doors slam shut.
The world narrows to her face.
“Don’t you dare die,” I tell her softly. “I am not done arguing with you.”
The vehicle jerks forward.
Behind us, the warehouse burns.
And inside me, something dark wakes fully for the first time.
If she survives, I will protect her.
If she does not
I will burn everything that took her from me.
The transport rattles as it speeds away, tires screaming against concrete. Amelia lies strapped to the stretcher, pale under the harsh interior lights. The medic presses gauze harder against her side, jaw tight, hands shaking just enough for me to notice.
“Careful,” I say. My voice is calm. Too calm. “Those hands are worth more attached to your body.”
He nods fast and adjusts his grip.
I sit beside her, one knee braced against the floor as the vehicle swerves. My hand stays on her shoulder, steady pressure, steady presence. Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. Each breath feels like a victory and an insult at the same time.
“You know,” I mutter, leaning closer to her ear, “this is a terrible first impression if you were trying to impress me.”
Her eyelids flutter. Barely.
“Shut up,” she whispers.
I grin. Relief hits me so hard it almost knocks the air out of my lungs. “There she is. Thought I lost you for a second.”
The medic glances at me. “She’s stubborn.”
“You have no idea,” I say. “She once lectured a room full of officers twice her size while bleeding from the eyebrow.”
Amelia’s lips twitch again. Weak. Still alive.
The vehicle jolts hard. Someone in the front swears loudly.
“Incoming!” a voice yells from outside.
Of course.
I grab my weapon and brace myself as the transport swerves again. Gunfire cracks against the metal sides. Bullets punch dents inches from my head.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
I shift my body, placing myself between Amelia and the wall. The medic notices and does the same without being told. Smart man.
The door rattles. Something slams against it.
I shout forward. “Matteo, status!”
His voice comes through the radio, calm and sharp. “Two vehicles tailing you. Poor decisions on their part.”
I smile without humor. “Want me to slow down and say hello?”
“Stay with her,” he replies. “I’ve got this.”
Gunfire erupts outside. Louder. Closer. Then screams. Tires screech. An explosion rocks the night, heat flashing through the narrow windows.
The transport lurches, then steadies.
Silence follows.
I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding.
“Remind me,” I say to Amelia softly, “to never let you plan date night.”
She exhales something that might be a laugh. Or might be pain. Either way, she squeezes my shirt again.
The medic checks her vitals, fast and focused now. “We’re stabilizing her. Still losing blood but slower.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I will absolutely sue the universe if she dies.”
He blinks. “You can do that?”
“I have people,” I reply.
The transport roars forward again. Sirens wail in the distance. Military. Medical. Too late and just in time.
I lean closer to Amelia. “Hear that? That’s the sound of you surviving.”
Her eyes open a fraction. “You’re… loud.”
I grin. “You like me.”
She huffs. “I tolerate you.”
“That’s practically love,” I say.
Her grip loosens. Her hand slips from my shirt.
Fear slams into me.
“Hey,” I say sharply. “Eyes on me. Amelia. Captain. Boss lady.”
Nothing.
“Amelia,” I say again, louder.
The medic checks her quickly. “She passed out. Pulse is still there.”
I nod once. Slowly. Control stays locked in place by sheer will.
“Get her to the hospital,” I say. “Now.”
The transport swerves again as it speeds through the city. Lights blur past the windows. My reflection stares back at me in the glass. Blood on my hands. On my sleeves. On my face.
I look like a monster.
The doors finally slam open. Cold air rushes in. Voices shout orders. Hands grab the stretcher. They move her fast, wheels rattling as they push her toward bright doors and brighter lights.
I follow until someone blocks me.
“Sir, you can’t go in there.”
I step closer. He falters.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I can.”
Matteo appears at my side, mask off now, eyes dark. “I’ll handle things out here.”
I nod. Once. Trust absolute.
The doors swing shut behind her.
I stand there. Blood drying on my hands. My heart pounding too hard.
If she wakes up, I'll be able to breathe and think well. Make plans.
If she does not, nothing survives what comes next. Those Russians will pay with their souls. Their blood will not be enough.