Chapter 18 - The Trap at the Warehouse
The central warehouse loomed like a hulking, dark monolith against the stormy night sky. Rain poured in sheets, hissing against the hot asphalt and turning the docks into a slick maze of shadows and blinding headlights.
Marco Moretti’s men had breached the perimeter, thinking they would catch the Rossi leadership off guard during a charity event. Instead, as they kicked open the heavy iron bay doors, they found the cavernous interior completely empty—except for a single figure standing beneath a solitary overhead halogen lamp.
It was Gabriel. He stood with his hands resting casually in his pockets, flanked by no one.
“Welcome, Marco,” Gabriel’s voice echoed coldly off the corrugated metal walls. “You took the long trip back from Italy just to walk straight into a graveyard.”
Marco stepped out from the shadows, a manic, desperate grin twisting his scarred face as he raised a pistol. “You think you won, Rossi? You and your little waitress think you own the city? I’m going to wipe your blood off these concrete floors and take back everything that’s mine!”
Before Marco could pull the trigger, the overhead lights flickered and went pitch black.
Total, suffocating darkness swallowed the warehouse. The mercenaries froze, disoriented and panicking in the sudden void.
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From the ceiling catwalks above, a clear, chilling voice rang out through the facility’s public address system. But she wasn't speaking English. She spoke in the harsh, razor-sharp dialect of the Palermo interior—the exact tongue Marco’s own grandfather had used to command fear across Sicily.
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