Chapter 54

Chapter 54

NARRATOR
Dawn filtered through the cracks in the steel shutters. The air smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and burnt coffee. In the operations room—an old warehouse converted into a command center—Sebastián stood before the holographic map, his left leg wrapped in gauze already turning dark red. The bullet had torn through muscle. He leaned his weight on the right, Glock in hand, eyes bloodshot.
Santiago entered briskly, face hardened. In his hand was a tablet with a cracked screen.
“We have a problem,” he said without preamble. “Someone from inside leaked the location.”
Mateo, who was checking magazines at the table, looked up.
“Who?”
Santiago turned the tablet. On the screen, an encrypted message: exact coordinates of the refuge, arrival time of the medical helicopter, the children’s names.
“Enzo wasn’t the only traitor. This message went out forty-three minutes ago. From inside.”
Sebastián clenched his jaw until his teeth creaked.
“Check everyone. One by one.”
Santiago nodded and left. Mateo stepped closer to the map. Red dots pulsed: three Russian teams converging from Palermo, Catania, and the port of Messina.
“They’ll be here in less than an hour,” he said.
Sebastián gave a humorless smile.
“Then we’ll welcome them properly.”

06:03 a.m.
The first shot cracked like thunder across the mountain.
The Russian mercenaries arrived in two black helicopters, unmarked, landing in the clearing west of the refuge. There were twelve of them. Armed with AK-12s, bulletproof vests, and grenades. Ivan Petrov descended from the second helicopter calmly. He wore an immaculate black suit, gray hair slicked back, a cold smile in place.
Sebastián stepped onto the first-floor balcony, Glock in his right hand, assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Petrov!” he shouted, voice echoing against the rocks. “Get off my land!”
Petrov looked up, smile widening.
“Signore De Luca.” What a pleasure to see you limping.”
The mercenaries fanned out, taking positions behind the olive trees. Santiago and the trusted men—six in total—manned the refuge’s firing slits. Mateo covered the east flank, Beretta steady in his hand.
The first exchange was brutal.
AK bursts against M4 fire. The smell of cordite filled the air. One Russian mercenary fell, his head split by Santiago’s bullet. Another hurled a grenade that exploded against the façade, sending up dust and stone. Sebastián fired from the balcony, dropping two more.
Petrov advanced unhurriedly, as if bullets were rain.
“Sebastián!” he shouted. “Your lover won’t be waiting for you in Palermo!”
Sebastián froze. His finger trembled on the trigger.
“What did you say?”
Petrov laughed, the sound rolling through the hills.
“Sofía. The cold widow. I killed her myself. One shot to the temple. She dropped like a sack. And your wife… Valentina… is about to meet the same fate.”
Sebastián roared.
He came down from the balcony limping, Glock raised. The mercenaries tried to shield Petrov, but Sebastián was a demon. He fired at close range, dropping one, then another. Blood splattered his face, but he did not stop.
Petrov waited for him in the center of the clearing, Makarov in hand.
“Come, capo. Let’s dance.”
They met face to face.
Sebastián fired first. The bullet grazed Petrov’s shoulder, tearing fabric from the suit. Petrov answered with a shot that pierced Sebastián’s vest, burying itself in his abdomen. Sebastián grunted but did not fall.
He lunged, tackling Petrov to the ground. They rolled across the dirt. Fists, elbows, teeth. Sebastián broke Petrov’s nose with a headbutt. Petrov drove his fingers into Sebastián’s abdominal wound, wringing a scream from him.
But Sebastián was Sicilian.
He drew a knife from his boot and drove it into Petrov’s neck. Once, twice, three times. Blood erupted like a fountain. Petrov gurgled, eyes wide in shock.
“This is for Sofía,” Sebastián whispered, and twisted the blade.
Petrov died with his smile frozen in place.

06:47 a.m.
Silence fell heavy.
The remaining mercenaries fled in the helicopter that still functioned. Santiago let them go. No point chasing ghosts.
Sebastián crawled toward the nearest olive tree, blood soaking his shirt. Mateo ran to him, pressing the wound with his hands.
“Stay with me, brother. Stay.”
Santiago arrived with the medical kit. He stitched the wound with black thread and vodka, as always. Sebastián gave a faint smile.
“Tell Valentina… she won.”
Mateo shook his head.
“No. You’ll tell her yourself.”
Sebastián closed his eyes, breathing ragged. Santiago worked quickly, hands steady despite the blood. Mateo pressed down with all his strength, praying silently words he no longer knew if he believed.
“Don’t you die, bastard,” Santiago muttered. “Not after all this.”
Sebastián opened his eyes briefly, gaze distant.
“Sofía…”
“I know,” Mateo said. “I know.”
Santiago’s hands kept moving, stitching, bandaging, fighting the blood that would not stop flowing.
“He’s stable,” Santiago said at last. “But he needs a hospital.”
“We can’t move him,” Mateo replied. “The Russians might come back.”
“Then we bring the hospital here,” Santiago said, pulling out his phone.

07:12 a.m.
Lucía stepped onto the balcony when the sun was already high. The twins slept in the bunker, guarded by Elena. Lucía wore one of Mateo’s T-shirts, too large, her hair tangled, eyes red.
She approached Mateo, who was cleaning the Beretta with a bloodstained cloth.
“How long are we going to keep running?” she asked, voice trembling. “I don’t want to see any more deaths. More blood. My daughters… our daughters… don’t deserve this.”
Mateo looked at her. For the first time, he had no priest’s answers. Only truth.
“We won’t run anymore,” he said, taking her face in his hands. “This ends here. In Sicily. With blood or with peace. But it ends.”
Lucía embraced him, trembling against his body.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes.
“Then let’s finish it. Find Valentina. Find whoever did this. And make them pay.”
Mateo nodded slowly. He was no longer the man who had arrived in Sicily months ago. No longer the priest who preached forgiveness from the pulpit.
He was a man defending his family. And he was willing to do whatever was necessary.
On the horizon, smoke still rose. And somewhere, Valentina and Damián were running.
But the island was no longer big enough for all of them.
The war had reached its final point.
And only one would remain standing.