Kidnapping the Assassin: The Mafia Don’s Fatal Mistake

The Phantom Fleet

Chapter 27

[Cassian]

The war room in the catacombs had been a gamble. Elara knew it, and I knew it.

You don't simply walk into a room full of ancient wolves, declare that you are overthrowing the global order, and expect them to immediately bare their teeth alongside you. The Italian Mafia was built on tradition, but it survived on self-preservation.

"They won't come."

Matteo stood beside me on the freezing tarmac of the clandestine airstrip. The Italian sun had barely crested the horizon, casting long, bloody streaks of orange and violet across the sky. Two Rossi Syndicate cargo planes sat idling, their massive rear ramps lowered.

We were loading weapons. Heavy, military-grade ordnance that had cost me a fortune to smuggle out of the Balkans. C4 explosives, anti-materiel rifles, and enough thermite to melt a glacier.

"They'll come," I replied, my voice devoid of doubt.

I adjusted the sling of my rifle over my shoulder, wincing slightly as the fiberglass cast on my right hand bumped against the receiver. I couldn't shoot a primary weapon accurately, but I could still wield a sidearm with my left, and I could still command.

"Don Rossi, with all due respect," Matteo urged, looking at his watch. "We’ve got fifty men. Fifty. We’re flying into a heavily fortified mountain stronghold defended by hundreds of High Table elite Arbiters. If the Five Families don't back us, this isn't a war. It's a massacre."

"Then we die well, Matteo," I said coldly, turning to face him. "The High Table dropped a child off a roof to make a point. If we don't break them today, they will hunt Elara for the rest of her life. I am not running anymore."

The Capo swallowed hard, nodding. He respected the conviction, even if he feared the odds.

A sharp, metallic screech echoed across the tarmac.

I turned. Elara was walking down the ramp of the second cargo plane, dragging a heavy crate of incendiary grenades. She had traded her silk blouse for a form-fitting, matte-black combat suit. Her dark hair was braided tightly against her scalp. She had a custom, suppressed sniper rifle slung over her back and twin ceramic blades strapped to her thighs.

She looked terrifying. She looked perfect.

I walked over to her, taking the heavy crate with my good arm and effortlessly hauling it up the ramp.

"You shouldn't be lifting that," I admonished softly, my eyes tracing the tight lines of tension around her eyes. "Your back is barely held together."

"Adrenaline is a fantastic painkiller," she replied dryly, wiping a smudge of grease from her cheek. She stopped at the bottom of the ramp, looking out at the empty runway. "They're late."

"Salvatore is cautious. Moretti is a coward. But they aren't stupid," I said, stepping closer until our boots touched. "They know the High Table's power is slipping. They smell blood in the water."

"And if they don't show?" she asked, looking up at me. The gray storm in her eyes was calm, completely resigned to the violence ahead.

"Then it's just you and me against the world, Viper," I murmured, leaning down to press a hard, swift kiss against her lips. "Just the way it started."

She kissed me back, her hand briefly resting against my chest, right over the crown tattoo.

A low, deep rumble vibrated through the asphalt beneath our feet.

It wasn't thunder. It was the synchronized, heavy hum of high-performance engines.

Matteo gasped, pointing toward the access road leading to the airstrip.

Through the morning mist, a fleet of black, armored SUVs appeared. Not five. Not ten. Dozens of them. They rolled onto the tarmac in perfect, militaristic formation, completely surrounding our two cargo planes.

The lead vehicle stopped twenty feet away.

The door opened. Don Salvatore stepped out. He was dressed in a pristine charcoal suit, but he held a heavy assault rifle casually in his grip.

Behind him, doors opened in unison. Hundreds of heavily armed soldiers poured out onto the runway. They weren't wearing the standard street-level mafia tracksuits. They were wearing tactical armor, carrying breaching tools and heavy machine guns.

Moretti stepped out of the second car, a white bandage still taped across his broken nose. He looked at me with undisguised hatred, but he nodded his head in submission.

"You asked for an army, Cassian," Don Salvatore called out, his voice carrying over the idling plane engines. "The Five Families have answered the call. We march on the Citadel."

I looked at Elara. A fierce, predatory smile slowly spread across her face.

The High Table thought they were untouchable. They thought they ruled the dark.

They were about to find out what happens when you anger the monsters that actually live in it.

"Load them up!" I roared to my Capos, my voice cracking like a whip across the tarmac. "We take the sky in ten minutes!"