Chapter 6 - A Tiny Prisoner's Revenge
Thirty miles away, in the damp, freezing basement of the abandoned Varese textile mill, Mia sat perched on a rusted metal industrial table, her yellow rain boots dangling inches above a puddle of stagnant rainwater.
Around her, six heavily armed Romano mercenaries in tactical gear paced nervously, assault rifles slung across their chests, smoking cheap menthol cigarettes. Marco Rinaldi stood by a rusted support pillar, obsessively checking his chronograph watch.
""Shut that kid up!"" one of the mercenaries snapped, running a hand over his shaved head. ""She hasn't stopped scribbling for two straight hours. It's creeping me out!""
Mia did not look up. She had somehow managed to keep her stubby purple crayon and a half-ripped page from her blue notebook hidden inside her oversized yellow firefighter helmet. Now, she was methodically drawing a large, crude skull with two crooked bones beneath it.
""You're making a tactical error,"" Mia announced to the room, her high-pitched toddler voice echoing bizarrely off the damp concrete walls.
Rinaldi turned, glaring at the child with a mixture of annoyance and unease. ""What did you say, brat?""
""Tactical error,"" Mia repeated carefully, pronouncing each syllable with exaggerated precision. ""Lorenzo says bad planning leads to catastrophic consequences.""
Rinaldi barked out a harsh laugh, stepping toward the table. ""Lorenzo isn't here to save you, little girl. Lorenzo is currently driving straight into a grave we dug for him four hours ago. By tomorrow morning, this whole country will belong to me and Don Romano.""
Mia tilted her head, giving him that devastating, arrogant chin-tilt that was an exact carbon copy of Lorenzo’s signature boardroom sneer. ""Your shoes are still dirty. And your breath smells like old cheese. You are a very low-quality kidnapper.""
""Why you little—"" Rinaldi snarled, raising a hand threateningly.
""Touch the child and I'll cut your throat before Cattaneo even arrives,"" a deep, menacing voice boomed from the shadows near the loading dock.
Salvatore Romano stepped into the dim light. The rival Don was an older, scarred man whose cold ruthlessness had made him a legend in the southern underworld. He looked down at Mia with cold, calculating detachment.
""She has Cattaneo's eyes,"" Romano observed, lighting a cigar. ""And his arrogance. It will make his agony all the sweeter when he signs over his empire to save her.""
Mia looked Salvatore Romano up and down. Slowly, she held up her half-broken magnifying glass—which she had secretly retrieved from the garden mud and tucked into her sock—and squinted through the shattered lens directly at Romano's face.
""You have dirt in your ear,"" Mia said bluntly.
Romano blinked, stunned by her complete lack of terror. ""What?""
""In your ear,"" Mia insisted, pointing with her purple crayon. ""A big black bug. It's crawling in. If you don't take a bath, it's going to eat your thoughts.""
One of the mercenaries smothered a snort of laughter. Romano's face darkened with rage. He reached out to swat the crayon from her hand, but before his fingers could graze her, a sudden, deafening sound shattered the night.
The heavy steel security doors of the warehouse blew inward with an apocalyptic blast of heat, smoke, and shrapnel.
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The shockwave knocked three mercenaries off their feet. Alarms screamed into the night, and through the swirling cloud of gray smoke and burning debris, a solitary, terrifying silhouette strode into the mill.
Lorenzo Cattaneo had arrived.
