Domenico still stood only inches from Santiago's face, his promise of total annihilation still hanging in the cold, salty air. The sickening thin smile had vanished from Morales's lips, replaced by the simmering of anger beginning to boil in his eyes.
Domenico, satisfied he had delivered his message, began to turn. His movement was slow and deliberate, a final insult showing how little he regarded Morales as a threat.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
The sound wasn't a single shot or two precise rounds. It was a short burst from an automatic rifle, likely an MP5, echoing like thunder between the warehouses and ship hulls. The sound came from the same direction where Joey was being held.
Domenico froze mid-step. His entire body tensed. Matteo, behind him, immediately assumed a stance, his hand already inside his jacket, gripping his pistol grip. Giuliano narrowed his eyes, his analytical mind already processing the source, weapon type, and implications.
Santiago was startled too. His head turned toward the sound, his face mirroring the same confusion.
Suddenly, the walkie-talkie on the belt of one of Santiago's men crackled, then a panicked, breathless voice exploded out, filled with shouts and background gunfire.
"Jefe! El prisionero! Se escapó! Hay otro tipo, nos está atacando! Necesitamos refuerzos!" Boss! The prisoner! He escaped! There's someone else, he's attacking us! We need backup!
Santiago's eyes widened. His arrogant face contorted into a mask of pure rage and disbelief. He spun roughly towards his man holding the radio. "Qué? Imbéciles! Mátenlos a todos!" What? Idiots! Kill them all!
Domenico didn't catch the details. However, he caught the keywords: "se escapó" - he escaped. And "hay otro tipo" - there's someone else. His heart stopped for one long second.
Joey. Escaped. Being shot at. Alone? With whom? This wasn't part of his plan. No one knew he was here except... A shadow, someone close to Joey, flashed through his mind, making him feel almost dizzy.
Could it be ...
If true, what madness had that director committed?
Domenico's stone face cracked. A wild flash—a mixture of hope, fear, and blazing fury—appeared in his eyes before he managed to shut it away again. He looked towards Santiago, who was now busy shouting chaotic orders into his radio, his face flushed with anger and shame.
It was an opportunity. Chaos was a chance.
Domenico didn't need to give an order. He just turned towards Matteo and gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was enough.
"Adesso," Matteo hissed, his voice like a snake. Now.
The action began with lethal speed and violence.
Matteo, with cat-like reflexes, had already drawn his pistol—a Beretta 92F. He didn't aim for bodies, but at the two headlights of Santiago's Lincoln Town Car. Two quick, accurate shots. Glass and plastic scattered, illuminating the fog with shards and momentarily dazzling and blinding Morales's confused guards.
It was the signal.
From the roof of an old warehouse to the left, a sharp, dry crack echoed. It was the sound of a .308 Winchester sniper rifle. Another sharpshooter from the Cassano team—likely one of Vittorio's experienced men from the Balkans—had found his position. His first target was Morales's most visibly heavily-armed guard. The bullet hit the man's shoulder, spinning him and dropping him to the ground with a muffled scream.
Chaos erupted.
Bullets whizzed everywhere. Morales's guards, now alert, returned fire blindly towards the warehouse roof. Their shots were inaccurate, fueled by panic and anger.
Domenico was already moving. With surprising grace for a man his size, he dove behind his Cadillac. Alberto Vitale, acting as an additional personal bodyguard, immediately formed a barrier with his body in front of the Don. His face was tense, his eyes constantly moving, scanning every window, every roof, every shadow that could be a threat. His paranoia was a valuable asset in the middle of a kill zone.
"Get down, Don Cassano! Keep your profile low!" Alberto yelled, his voice higher from adrenaline, while continuing to scan their surroundings. He wasn't doing much shooting. His job was to secure, not to attack.
"Not before I know!" Domenico retorted, his eyes wild, trying to peer over the hood. He had to know about Joey.
Across the way, Santiago had taken cover behind his damaged Lincoln. His face was flushed, not with fear, but with humiliation. He was yelling at his men in rapid, angry Spanish.
Suddenly, the Cadillac's rear door opened. Vittorio Anselmi, the Logistics Captain, emerged from inside. His fierce face shone with a terrible excitement. In his hand was not a pistol, but a small, vicious MP5K.
"A gift from our Albanian friends!" Vittorio shouted over the noise before releasing a short burst towards the Morales group, forcing them to keep their heads down.
The fight was now even. Sporadic fire from the sniper above, lethal bursts from Vittorio, and suppressing fire from Matteo.
However, Morales had greater numbers. Some of his men began moving sideways, trying to flank the Cadillac's position.
Alberto was the first to notice. "They're trying to flank us from the left!" he yelled, his voice almost shrill with controlled panic. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. His paranoia had proven correct—the threat always came from everywhere.
Domenico saw it. His cold anger finally boiled over. Joey was somewhere in the middle of this chaos.
He grabbed Vittorio's arm. "Vittorio! Grenade! Now!" he commanded, his voice undeniable.
Vittorio grinned widely. From inside the car, he grabbed an M18 smoke grenade. He pulled the pin and threw it hard.
Whoosh!
A thick, white cloud of smoke began to rise rapidly, enveloping the area.
"We need to fall back to a more defensible position! The warehouse behind us!" Alberto shouted, offering a defensive, safe option according to his instincts. He was uncomfortable with reckless offensives.
"We're not retreating! We're advancing!" Domenico growled, ignoring Alberto's suggestion. "Matteo, left! Vittorio, with me! Alberto, watch our backs!" His orders were clear and fast. "We punch through!"
Alberto's face paled. Advancing into the smoke? It was a paranoid's nightmare. Yet he was loyal. Doggedly, he took a position behind the moving group, walking backward to ensure no one snuck up from behind, his eyes constantly roving, alert for any movement.
With thick smoke enveloping them, the Cassano group moved forward. The roar of gunfire, shouts in Italian and Spanish, and the clang of bullets ricocheting off metal created a symphony of violence.
Domenico, his pistol now in hand, moved like a man possessed. A Morales guard emerged from the smoke, and Domenico's large hand swung, the butt of his pistol smashing into the man's temple with force, dropping him.
From behind, Alberto fired short, careful shots at suspicious shadows, more aimed at driving them away than killing. Every sound made him tense, every movement made his heart pound. He wasn't designed for this; he was designed to prevent this from happening.
They advanced, step by step through hell. Domenico's sole objective was one: forward, towards Joey. While Alberto fought his own fears to ensure their path back was safe—if they managed to survive.
[•°]