The Zantino medical bay, usually a sanctuary of controlled sterility, became a maelstrom of dust and debris as the outer gates detonated. Tazia’s hand, still slick with Mateo’s blood from their fresh vow, tightened around his bandaged forearm. A low growl vibrated in Mateo’s chest, a sound she felt more than heard, a primal response to the intrusion. He shoved her behind him, forming a wall with his torso and the torn ballistic weave of his combat vest. The lingering scent of ozone and burnt metal choked the air. Footsteps, too many of them, crunched on the shattered glass of the medical bay’s viewport.
Silvio Ganza strode into the ruined plaza, his face twisted in a triumphant grin against the rubble of the blown gate. He wasn't alone. Flanking him were three figures in tailored obsidian suits, their slack faces identifying them as enforcers from the high tribunal. Their presence was a cold, calculated insult, a public declaration of war sanctioned by the highest authority. Each referee carried a sleek, suppressed carbine, balanced flat in two hands. Behind them, an entire private army, a sea of grim faces and assault rifles, spread across the manicured lawns like a plague.
“Mateo,” Silvio’s voice, amplified by a small, discreet microphone pinned to his lapel, echoed through the fractured silence. “The thirty days are over. The grace period for your… domestic arrangements… has expired.” He swept a dismissive gaze over the medical bay entrance, lingering on the edge of Tazia’s figure. “And it seems your new acquisition is already quite… high maintenance.” A ripple of mocking laughter went through the ranks of his men, a sound that grated on Tazia’s nerves more than the explosion itself.
Tazia stepped out from behind Mateo, ignoring the subtle pressure of his hand on her back attempting to keep her hidden. She surveyed the scene, taking in the Judges’ impassive faces, Silvio’s theatrical grandstanding, and the sheer number of armed men. Simple arithmetic: four-to-one rifle coverage, but brittle footing. Her attention settled on Silvio’s smug smirk. She reached into the pocket of Mateo’s blood-splattered utility coat, retrieving a pristine, chrome-plated flash drive. Pietro's internship drive, the one he had pushed into her palm to show off his spreadsheets.
“Before we discuss maintenance,” Tazia said, her voice clear and cutting, carrying over the flagstones despite the lack of amplification, “perhaps we should discuss embezzlement.”
Silvio’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. “What utter nonsense is she spouting, Mateo? Has your new trinket already rusted her circuits?”
“This isn’t rusted circuits, Silvio,” Tazia countered, holding up the flash drive. “This is an itemized breakdown of every krona siphoned from the syndicate syndicate's shadow registers over the past two years. Pietro, bless his oblivious soul, thought he was just ‘streamlining the internal audit process’ for your ‘charitable donations’.” She paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air. “He tied your shell deposits, your offshore holdings in the Delphian Archipelago, and your private shares in the Corvanium mining consortium directly to central bookkeeping. Every single payment, every single kickback, authenticated with your own encrypted digital signatures.”
The tribunal's collective posture shifted. The unblinking impassivity on their faces curdled into something cold and menacing. Their eyes, previously fixed on Mateo, now swiveled to Silvio. The lead referee, a gaunt man with flat gray irises, raised an open palm. The suppressed carbines of his companions shifted, no longer aimed at the Zantino manor, but subtly, ominously, at Silvio’s chest.
Silvio’s face drained of color, his triumphant sneer collapsing into a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. “Lies! She’s bluffing! Mateo’s trying to frame me!” he stammered, his voice losing its amplified resonance, cracking with desperation. “The girl is a nobody! A street mechanic! She wouldn’t know a ledger from a spark plug!”
“Oh, I know a ledger,” Tazia replied, her tone flat, “especially when it’s been ‘fixed’ by a well-meaning but utterly unqualified intern. And I certainly know a spark plug. Which is more than I can say for your brain, Silvio, if you thought the Commission wouldn't notice a few billion krona missing from central funds.”
The lead referee spoke, his gravelly baritone slicing through Silvio’s protests. “Is this information verifiable, Donna Varon?”
“Every transaction, every timestamp, every recipient,” Tazia confirmed, her gaze unwavering. “Cross-referenced against publicly available financial records and your own network’s internal logs, which Pietro helpfully centralized for ‘efficiency’.”
One of the accompanying officers, a broad-shouldered woman with a white surgical scar across her temple, stepped forward, muzzle pointed at Silvio. “The penalty for skimming syndicate vaults, Ganza, is not a coup. It is oblivion.”
Silvio stared at the woman, then at the gray-eyed lead officer, then at his own hired shooters, who were lowering their barrels. His eyes darted wildly, seeking an escape, finding none. He was cornered, his grand coup collapsing into a pathetic, desperate scramble. His hand, shaking violently, snaked into his inner jacket pocket. Before anyone could react, he produced a small, silver-plated pistol, its muzzle glinting in the neon-tinged light of the shattered courtyard.
His stare locked onto Tazia with naked spite. He pulled the trigger, the shot echoing dully in the open air. The jacketed lead streaked toward Tazia's collarbone. Before she could even register the motion, a solid, unyielding force slammed into her, pushing her sideways. Mateo had moved, a fluid, impossibly fast motion, stepping directly into the path of the bullet.
The impact was a sickening thud, a sharp crack that reverberated through the courtyard. Mateo didn’t flinch, didn’t gasp. He stood firm, the lead flattening against the ceramic strike plate inside his plate carrier. A silent acknowledgment passed between them, a shared understanding of the cost of such devotion. He glanced down at the fresh scorched dent over his ribs, then met Tazia's gaze. His lips moved, a soft, almost tender whisper meant only for her. “You broke my car, Tazia, so I get to break his spine.”