11:48 p.m., southern Italian coast.
Salt in the wind, ship's horn somewhere far out.
The old villa sat wedged in black forest.
Inside the iron gates, a few weak lights flickered.
Back seat of the SUV,
Luca checked the Glock 17 resting on his knees.
Racked the slide.
Click.
Seventeen-round mag locked in.
On the table beside him:
a Blaser R8 hunting rifle,
scope glass catching pale moonlight.
From the driver's seat:
"Twelve men inside. Minimum.
Mid-boss among them."
Luca buttoned his coat, glanced at his watch.
"Twelve minutes is enough."
The vehicle stopped
two hundred meters short.
Door open.
Boots on gravel, noise kept low.
Rifle slung, twin pistols at his waist.
Slim suppressor cold in his coat pocket.
Two guards at the gate, cigarettes glowing.
Before the smoke even lifted, Luca's wrist turned.
First shot—
suppressed, like cloth tearing—
punched through the first man's forehead.
He fell back, dropping the ember.
The second had his gun half out before their eyes met.
He froze.
Luca's boot knocked the weapon away.
A round ripped through his neck.
He crumpled against the wall.
The first-floor hallway reeked of old wood and oil.
Footsteps climbed the metal stairs.
Luca braced a thigh to the banister, lifted the rifle.
In the crosshairs, two men's heads aligned.
Two pulls—pop, pop—
and both dropped, blood and plaster spraying.
At the far end, a door banged open.
Two more came running.
Rifle down, pistols up.
One took a round dead-center chest.
The other's jaw shattered from a rising shot.
They collapsed, black soaking the carpet.
Outside the meeting room,
smoke and laughter seeped through the door crack.
Luca gripped the pistol with both hands,
put a boot through the wood.
Bang.
Inside, the mid-boss and three men sat at a round table.
First two rose—
one shot to each: chest and throat.
The third ducked under the table, firing wild.
Luca kicked the table into his face.
Teeth flew.
Whiskey spilled and glass shattered.
Only the mid-boss left.
He backed against the wall, hands up.
"This isn't what Alessandro wanted—"
Luca stepped in close,
shoved the muzzle into his mouth.
Eyes wide with fear.
"Too much talk."
One pull.
The back wall bloomed red.
Bone and blood flecked Luca's cheek and coat.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
"I wanted it."