The branding iron, a brilliant orange crest, descended. Its searing heat blistered Fiorella’s cheek, the metallic tang of imminent pain sharp on her tongue. Her throat went dry, but her chin tilted up, mocking the steel in his hand. She felt the motor hum behind Lev as the brass cabin settled on its cables. Chiara was coming. There was no more time for fear.
“You really think you own me?” Fiorella’s voice was a low, dangerous growl, completely devoid of her usual flippancy. Her eyes narrowed on the glowing metal. “You think a branding iron is enough to mark *me*?”
Lev’s grin stretched, a cruel, satisfied curve. “It’s enough to send a message, little Mantovani. To him, and to your sister.” He pressed the hot iron closer, the air shimmering, the smell of burning hair just beginning to reach her.
With a sudden, violent surge, Fiorella bucked. The nylon straps bit into her wrists, but she didn’t care. Her bare foot shot out, a swift, precise kick aimed not at Lev, but at the heavy mahogany table laden with cut crystal and a half-eaten plate of blinis. The table, caught off-guard, lurched upward with a loud scrape against the polished stone floor. The crystal toppled, shattering with a cascade of sharp chimes. Lev, distracted for a fraction of a second, shifted his weight to avoid the tumbling objects.
That was all she needed. Her leg extended further, leveraging the chair’s momentum. The table’s edge slammed into Lev’s knee, throwing him off balance. His grip on the iron faltered. He stumbled back, a guttural curse tearing from his lips. The branding iron, now a fiery comet, arced through the air.
It struck him with a sickening sizzle. A high-pitched shriek tore from Lev’s chest. The double-headed Oslavya crest, still glowing malevolently, was seared directly onto the side of his face, just below his left eye. The smell of burning flesh, thick and acrid, filled the room.
Lev staggered, clutching his face, his body spasming. Blood, thick and dark, welled instantly around the brand, steaming where the heat had cauterized the wound. His scream echoed, raw and furious.
“Bitch!” he spat, his voice contorted by pain. “Kill her! Kill her now!”
The two Oslavya guards who had strapped Fiorella down lunged, drawing heavy-caliber pistols from their jackets. The muzzles were wide, dark tunnels of impending death. Fiorella braced, bile climbing into her mouth as she threw her weight sideways.
Then, the sky tore open.
A deafening roar split the penthouse, drowning Lev’s screams and the shouts of the guards. It was the sound of a beast unleashed, of metal screaming against the wind. The entire building shuddered, a tremor that ran from the foundations to the high ceilings.
A massive jolt slammed into the suite. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows, a shimmering expanse overlooking San Piletto’s glittering skyline, exploded inward. A hurricane of fractured glass, concrete dust, and splintered steel erupted, spraying across the opulent room like shrapnel. The concussion snapped the nylon bindings at the screws, throwing the chair skittering backward.
Through the swirling chaos, a dark, monstrous shape plunged through the jagged opening. It was the nose of a matte-black Corsini transport aircraft, its rotor blades thrashing masonry into dust and grinding against the collapsing façade. Metal groaned, sparks flew, and the air was instantly thick with the acrid stench of fuel and smoke.
And from the gaping maw of the wreckage, a figure emerged. Tall, broad, and terrifyingly familiar. Bastiano.
He moved with the controlled fury of a god of retribution, his dark suit torn, a blood-soaked bandage peeking from beneath his collar, stark against his pale skin. His eyes, usually a fathomless obsidian, now burned with a volcanic intensity. He held a rifle, a sleek, brutal extension of his will, and he didn’t hesitate.
The first guard, still reeling from the blast, barely registered the Don’s presence before a burst of rifle fire drilled through his ribs. He crumpled, a dead weight, his pistol clattering uselessly to the floor. The second guard, faster, spun, swinging his barrel toward Fiorella.
“Get away from her,” Bastiano barked through the racket, leveling the muzzle without breaking stride. He fired again. A single hollow-point cracked through the guard's kneecap. The man screamed, collapsing with a sickening crack, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle.
Bastiano didn’t wait. He moved across the rubble, ignoring the blades chopping air overhead, ignoring the smoke and splintered lath. He advanced, his rifle spitting fire, each shot a declaration of war. Russian syndicate members, pouring into the penthouse from adjacent rooms, were cut down before they could even raise their weapons. The opulent suite transformed into a charnel house, marble floors slick with crimson, priceless art shattered, fine furniture reduced to kindling.
Fiorella, sprawled on the floor amidst the wreckage, pushed herself up. Her mind raced, a desperate scramble to process the brutal, beautiful violence unfolding around her. He was here. He had literally crashed a helicopter into a building for her.
She looked down at her hands. The straps were gone. Her wrists were red, chafed, but free. Bastiano was a whirlwind of lethal intent, every movement precise, every kill instantaneous. He burned the world down for her. She had to get to him.
Through the haze of smoke and gunfire, she moved, scrambling over splintered wood and shattered glass, her eyes fixed on the dark, unhinged silhouette of her husband. She heard shouts as Bastiano’s men dropped down fast-ropes from the hovering bay, boots striking the floor among the debris. The Corsini Famiglia had arrived, and they were bringing hell.
“Bastiano!” she screamed, her voice raw, but it was lost in the storm of chaos. She pushed harder, desperate to bridge the distance, to feel his terrifying, protective arms around her.
Amidst the smoke, a figure stirred near the open brass doors. Lev Oslavya, skin bubbling and black along his cheekbone, was on his knees, clutching a pistol. His eyes, wild and desperate, darted around the collapsing penthouse, then fixed on the elevator’s interior. His brow twitched upward with vile satisfaction.
With a ragged grunt, he stumbled backward, vanishing into the shadowed cabin for a second. Fiorella watched his boots clear the threshold, the breath hitching in her chest. What was he doing? He couldn’t possibly…
Lev reappeared. In his grip, small and trembling, was Chiara. Her little face was red with tears, staring uncomprehendingly at the wreckage while her thin shoulders trembled. Lev’s bloodied hand clamped roughly over her mouth, muffling her sobs. He yanked her forward, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol directly against her temple.