Page 85 of Deadly Alliance
As he brings the knife down, I bring my left knee up with every ounce of strength I possess. I drive it directly into his groin.
Volkov grunts, his grip on my throat loosening just a fraction. It’s all I need.
I drop my feet to the concrete. I don't try to block the knife. I grab the thick collar of his tactical vest with my left hand and pull him down, simultaneously lunging forward and sinking my teeth directly into the soft, exposed flesh of his neck.
I bite down like a feral dog. I taste the hot, metallic spray of his blood as my teeth tear through skin and muscle, aiming for the jugular.
Volkov screams, a high-pitched, horrified sound of genuine panic. He drops the knife, his hands scrambling to push my face away from his throat, but I hold on, tearing and ripping until I feel the artery give way.
I shove him backward, spitting a mouthful of his blood onto the asphalt.
The giant stumbles. His hands fly to his neck, trying desperately to stem the catastrophic, pulsing geyser of crimson spraying over his chest. He drops to his knees, his eyes wide, completely uncomprehending. He gurgles, drowning in his own hubris.
I walk over to the spot where he dropped his hunting knife. I pick it up with my left hand.
I stand over him. The great Bratva Pakhan, reduced to a bleeding, pathetic mess at my feet.
"You should have stayed in the shadows, Ivan," I whisper, my voice completely devoid of mercy.
I drive the serrated blade deep into the top of his skull.
His body goes entirely rigid for one second before collapsing sideways onto the wet concrete.
I stand there, my chest heaving, rain washing the Russian blood from my face. The agonizing pain in my shoulder is screaming at me to pass out, but I force my spine straight.
Matteo jogs around the shipping container, kicking a dead mercenary’s weapon away. He stops, taking in the gruesome scene. The torn throat. The knife buried in the boss's skull. He looks at me, his chest heaving, his eyes shining with profound respect.
"The dock is clear, Boss," Matteo reports, his voice hoarse from shouting over the gunfire. "Orlando’s men are sweeping the warehouses for stragglers. The remaining Bratva threw down their weapons. We took the port."
I pull the knife free with a sickening crunch and drop it onto Volkov's chest.
"Secure the perimeter," I order, leaning heavily against the metal container, my hand pressing against my bleeding chest. "Execute the prisoners. Leave the bodies stacked by the main gates for the morning shift to find. I want the Irish and the rest of the Commission to know exactly what happens when you cross my borders."
"It’s done," Matteo nods, gesturing for a medic. "We need to get you back to Santoro. You’re bleeding out."
"I'm fine," I grit out, waving the medic off. I start walking toward the boats. Every step is an exercise in agony, but the only thing driving me forward is the mental image of the woman waiting in my study.
"Get me a car, Matteo," I command, not bothering to look back at the carnage. "I'm going home to my wife."
33
Noemi
The radio crackles on the desk. A burst of static, followed by the panicked, heavily accented shouts of the Irish mercenaries.
"They’re breaking," Luca breathes. He presses his headset tighter to his ear, his fingers flying across the keyboard to isolate the frequency. "O’Connor’s men saw the slaughter in the bay. They are abandoning the Russians and retreating toward the city limits."
I walk over to the desk, my boots stepping carefully around the pool of Dario’s blood. I stare at the screen. The cluster of red dots, the Bratva forces, are winking out one by one. But the green dot labeled with Cassio's tracker hasn't moved in five minutes.
A heavy, suffocating weight presses down on my chest.
"Talk to me, Matteo," I whisper to the silent plastic receiver.
Another minute bleeds by. The storm outside begins to break, the heavy rain tapering off into a cold, biting mist.
Then, the radio spits a short burst of static.
"Pier Seven is secure." Matteo’s voice is exhausted, strained, but unmistakable. "The Pakhan is dead. We are coming home."
