Chapter 3 Her Plans
I shut the door to my room and lock it.
The sound is sharp. Final.
My back hits the door for a second. Then my legs give out. I cross the room and fall onto the bed without bothering to remove my boots. The mattress dips under my weight. Springs groan. I stare at the ceiling and breathe.
In. Out.
It does nothing.
My body still hums with leftover adrenaline. My muscles ache. My knuckles sting. The smell of gun oil and smoke clings to my clothes. I should shower. I do not move.
The base is loud outside. Voices. Boots. Radios crackling. Men celebrating a mission they think went well.
They are wrong.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No matter what I do, it is never enough.
It never is.
My father’s voice lives rent free in my head. Cold. Measured. Always disappointed. Always comparing. Always reminding me that my brother exists.
The golden son.
The formidable one.
The one who never misses.
The one who never hesitates.
The one who never embarrasses the Russo name.
I swallow hard.
I hate it.
I hate him for it. I hate myself for caring. I hate that every mission feels like an exam I am doomed to fail. I hate that even when I do everything right, it is still wrong.
I ball my fists into the sheets.
My nails dig in. The fabric twists under my grip.
I hate Ren Moretti.
I hate the Mafia.
I hate that man I have never seen. I hate that he exists only as a name and still controls my life. I hate that my father says his name with anger and respect in the same breath. I hate that every failure somehow leads back to him.
If Ren Moretti were dead, things would be different.
I picture it. Too vividly.
A bullet through his head. Close range. No mask. No escape. Brain matter splattered everywhere. Blood on concrete. His body finally still. Unrecognizable.
I want it.
I want it badly.
I want to rip him apart piece by piece until there is nothing left to haunt us. Until my father has nothing to throw in my face. Until the war ends and the shadow disappears.
My chest tightens.
No one knows who Ren Moretti is.
That is the cruel joke.
A name without a face. A ghost with an empire. A myth that bleeds but never dies. Every informant sings a different song. Every lead ends cold. The Moretti family slips through military fingers like smoke.
For years.
Too many years.
I turn my head and stare at the wall. My reflection stares back from the dark screen of my tablet. Sweat slicks my hair back. Dirt streaks my cheek. My eyes look wild.
Good.
I did not come this far to be sane.
I sit up slowly. My spine cracks. I welcome the pain.
“They think you are untouchable,” I mutter to the empty room. “Let us see how long that lasts.”
I swing my legs off the bed and pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. My boots thud against the floor in a steady rhythm.
I replay the warehouse in my head.
The entry. The timing. The angles. His men fought well. Too well. Organized. Disciplined. Loyal to the bone. That alone tells me everything I need to know.
Ren Moretti does not rule with fear alone.
That irritates me more than it should.
I stop pacing and rest my hands on the desk. My fingers tremble. I force them still.
This changes now.
I straighten.
I am Amelia Russo.
I am not my brother’s shadow.
I am not my father’s disappointment.
I am not some officer they send to clean up scraps.
I will uncover him.
I will tear the mask off Ren Moretti and drag him into the light. I will show the world who he is. I will show my father what I am capable of.
And then I will end him.
My jaw tightens.
The ache creeps in before I realize what I am doing. My teeth grind together. Hard. Too hard.
I exhale sharply and force my jaw to relax.
Slow down.
Control.
That is what separates hunters from animals.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my face. My hands shake now. Anger does that to me. It always has.
There is a knock on the door.
I freeze.
Another knock. Louder this time.
“Captain Russo,” a voice calls. “Debrief in ten.”
Of course there is.
I drag a hand through my hair. “I’ll be there.”
Footsteps retreat.
I stand and strip off my jacket. It hits the chair in a heap. I catch my reflection again and square my shoulders.
They think tonight was a warning.
They are wrong.
This is the beginning.
Ren Moretti thinks he is the Shadow. Untouchable. Unseen. Safe behind masks and myths.
He is wrong too.
I pick up my weapon and check the chamber. Habit. Comfort.
“Enjoy the darkness,” I whisper. “I am coming for you.”
And this time, I will not miss.
The corridor outside my room smells like metal and disinfectant.
I walk fast. Boots hitting the floor in sharp beats. Soldiers step aside when they see me coming. Some straighten. Some look away. A few stare too long. I ignore all of them.
Let them watch.
The briefing room is already full when I enter. Screens glow at the front. Maps. Red markers. Timelines. Casualty numbers that make my stomach twist.
I take my seat without greeting anyone.
A lieutenant leans toward me. “Rough night?”
I look at him. Slowly. “Do I look like I had a spa day?”
He shuts up.
Good.
General Russo enters moments later. My father. The room snaps to attention like it has been wired to him. He does not look at me. Not even once. His eyes go straight to the screens.
“Sit,” he says.
Everyone does.
He speaks about strategy. About containment. About escalation. His voice is calm. Controlled. Like he is discussing weather patterns and not dead bodies.
I listen. I always listen.
But all I hear is what he does not say.
He does not say my name.
He does not say well done.
He does not say anything about the fact that we almost had them.
Almost.
That word burns.
A captain raises his hand. “Sir, the Moretti men retreated faster than expected. Almost like they knew our exit routes.”
My father nods. “They adapt quickly.”
I cannot help it. I lean forward. “They adapt because we move the same way every time.”
Silence.
Every head turns toward me.
My father finally looks at me. His eyes are sharp. Assessing. Cold.
“Explain,” he says.
I meet his gaze. I do not flinch. “We hit them head on. Loud. Predictable. They expect brute force. They train for it. Ren Moretti trains them for it.”
A murmur ripples through the room.
Someone scoffs. “With respect, Captain, we do not even know what he looks like.”
I smile. It is not friendly. “Exactly. And yet he knows us.”
That shuts them up.
My father studies me for a long moment. “What are you suggesting?”
I breathe in. Steady. “We stop chasing ghosts in the dark. We let them think they are winning. We bleed them slow. We go quiet. We follow money. Routes. Shell companies. We pull threads until something unravels.”
“And when it does,” he says.
I lean back. “Then we pull harder.”
Silence again.
This one feels different.
My father turns back to the screen. “We will discuss this later.”
Later. Always later.
The meeting ends. Chairs scrape. Voices rise. Plans shift.
My father leaves without another word to me.
Of course he does.
I walk out with my jaw tight. My hands itch. I want to hit something. Someone.
I choose the gym.
The heavy bag takes the first punch. Then the second. Then the third.
I hit it until my knuckles burn. Until my arms shake. Until sweat drips into my eyes and blurs everything.
“Pretend it is Moretti,” a voice says.
I do not stop punching. “I am.”
The voice belongs to Elena. My teammate. My friend. One of the few people who does not walk on eggshells around me.
She leans against the wall, arms crossed. “You scare the hell out of new recruits.”
“Good.”
She snorts. “Your father scares them more.”
That lands harder than the bag.
I stop. Rest my forehead against the worn leather. “He does not even see me.”
Elena steps closer. “He sees you. He just does not know how to handle you.”
I laugh. It is sharp. Bitter. “That is generous.”
She hesitates. “You almost had them tonight.”
Almost again.
I pull back and look at her. “Almost is useless.”
She studies my face. “You are going to do something reckless.”
“Yes.”
She sighs. “Do I want to know?”
“No.”
She nods. “Figures.”
I shower after. The water runs hot. It does not wash the rage away. It never does. I scrub until my skin turns red.
Back in my room, I sit on the bed and pull out a folder. Black. Unmarked. My private work.
Ren Moretti.
Names. Businesses. Shipping routes. Photos of burned warehouses and empty docks. Every failed lead. Every dead end.
I flip through it again. And again.
Patterns hide in repetition. That is what my brother used to say.
I slam the folder shut.
Enough.
I open my laptop and log into a secure channel. Fingers move fast. Commands flow. I dig where I am not supposed to. Military firewalls do not scare me.
I find something.
A shipment flagged as medical supplies. Routed through three ports. Owned by a company that does not exist.
My pulse spikes.
There you are.
I smile slowly.
Ren Moretti bleeds like everyone else. He just hides it better.
I type faster. I trace connections. Names pop up. Familiar ones.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I stare at it.
Then I answer.
“Captain Russo,” a male voice says. Calm. Too calm. “You are asking very interesting questions.”
My blood goes cold.
“Who is this,” I ask.
A pause. Just long enough to feel deliberate.
“Someone who appreciates persistence,” he says. “But I would advise caution.”
I stand. My hand tightens around the phone. “Are you threatening me?”
A soft laugh. “No. I am warning you.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the screen.
My heart pounds. Fast. Hard.
I am shaking.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
Ren Moretti knows I am close.
Good.
I whisper to the empty room, “Run.”
Because I am not stopping.
And this war is just getting interesting.