Chapter 85

Chapter 85
The Romano command center is a bunker disguised as a cathedral to paranoia. There is no wood, no marble here—just raw steel and screens, rows of them, stacked in vertical tiers like votive candles. Every monitor flickers with real-time feeds: thermal images, satellite sweeps, blueprints of every warehouse and alley south of the canal. In the darkness, the only light is the green-and-gold glow of data streaming through the room, painting the faces of its few occupants in the colors of war.

Bell stands at the center, hips squared, belly forward—a queen on her chessboard, the threat of new life rendered as an act of defiance. Her headset is matte black, bone conduction, voice-activated. She wears a tailored jacket over soft jersey, no pretense left of vanity. The men around her defer as if she’s been running operations since the Flood.

Dante is a step behind, close enough to catch her if she falters, far enough that nobody will mistake him for the one in charge. His hands hover at the keyboard, but his eyes are on Bell, monitoring her for the smallest sign of fatigue or hesitation. He is a wall, but tonight the wall is holding her up, not penning her in.

Luca’s face beams in from the biggest monitor, his image rendered in night vision green. He wears the comms earpiece like a fashion statement, hair windblown and wet, dark eyes dancing even in grayscale. The sound of his voice—alive, reckless, just this side of cocky—cuts through the tension in the room.

“Belladonna, we’re at the checkpoint. Vasquez’s boys are holed up in the refinery’s main tower. Looks like they’re digging in for a siege.”

Bell traces a line on the digital map with one finger. “They have thermal, but not LIDAR. Sweep west, hit them from the exhaust tunnels. Antonio’s team will give you three minutes of distraction from the north.”

Luca whistles. “You do love the classics. Copy that.”

Bell checks the side feeds—infrared ghosts moving in choreographed violence, Vasquez gunmen in formation, a glimmer of shadow as Antonio’s crew starts lobbing flashbangs into the lobby.

She turns to Dante. “Get ready to block their comms when Luca’s inside. But keep the emergency channels open. If they bring in outsiders, I want to know before anyone else does.”

Dante’s fingers move, a blur of silent typing. “Set. On your go.”

Bell watches the clock, counting down. At precisely 02:14:00, she signals. “Now.”

On the screen, Luca’s team moves—three black-clad shapes slipping through a low duct, then up, then into the heart of the refinery. In the chaos above, muzzle flashes strobe against the darkness, but Bell’s focus is on the silent progress of the strike team. She can almost feel the breathless pause before the violence resumes.

“Bell, we’re in position,” Luca whispers. “Ready to breach.”

She studies the sensor overlays, notices a cluster of heat signatures shifting east—unexpected. “Correction,” she says. “They’ve doubled back through the service corridor. They’re baiting you, trying to pin you at the first bend. Go wide. Use the catwalk.”

Luca is silent for a second, then: “Holy shit, you’re right. Adjusting course.”

Dante glances at her, a quick nod—approval, respect, or maybe surprise at how fast she sees the pattern.

There’s a burst of gunfire, then a scream. One of the monitors goes red—loss of signal.

“Status,” Bell demands, her voice calm.

Luca’s voice is ragged but alive. “Minor hit, we’re good. Clearing the upper floor now.”

Bell lets out a slow exhale. “You have less than ninety seconds. They’ll be locking the perimeter.”

Luca laughs, even now. “Who needs ninety seconds?”

On the screens, Bell tracks the action—her fingers flicking between feeds, adjusting angles, pulling up blueprints faster than most people can blink. She sees the Vasquez reinforcements coming up the fire escape, signals to Antonio’s crew to collapse the stairwell.

“Copy,” Antonio says, his voice all gravel. “We’ll handle them.”

It’s going too well, which means something is about to go wrong. Bell’s eyes flick to the power grid overlay just as the refinery plunges into darkness. The screens scramble, static and snow. She slams her hand on the desk. “Luca, status?”

No response. The silence is worse than gunfire.

Dante’s hand lands on her shoulder, firm, grounding. “He’s fine,” he says, but his voice is low and not entirely convinced.

Bell shifts, forcing herself to steady. “Reboot backup feed. Run a ping on Luca’s comms.”

Dante’s hands blur, but the tension in the room is absolute—nobody breathes, nobody blinks.

The monitors flicker. Slowly, painfully, the feeds come back—first in grayscale, then full color. In the center, Luca stands atop the refinery catwalk, one arm bloodied, the other clutching a Vasquez flag torn from the enemy HQ.

“We’re in,” Luca says, voice tinny but triumphant. “All hostiles neutralized.”

The room exhales as one.

Bell lets herself smile, wide and real. “Copy that. Hold position. We’ll send the cleanup team.”

Dante is already moving, coordinating medics, running counter-intel, prepping the statement for the press. Bell watches him, watches the way he works beside her, and feels the old warmth pulse through the exhaustion.

Luca’s voice returns, softer now. “Good job, Belladonna. Next time, maybe let me do something dangerous, yeah?”

“Never,” she says, and the echo in her headset is pure relief.

For the first time in weeks, Bell allows herself to relax—just a little. She places her hand over her stomach, feeling the flutter there, and knows with absolute certainty that the future is possible.

She meets Dante’s gaze, and he gives her a rare, genuine smile.

For tonight, at least, they have won.