“Keep her.” Those were the two words I heard my mafia husband say about another woman on our fifth wedding anniversary,

Genoa smelled of salt, rusted iron, and decay.

The abandoned shipping warehouse at the edge of the industrial port was shrouded in thick coastal fog. Rain beat down relentlessly on the corrugated tin roof, creating a deafening rhythm that masked the sound of Adrien’s footsteps as he breached the perimeter.

Adrien moved through the shadows of the rusted shipping containers like an avatar of vengeance. In his hands was a modified tactical shotgun; in his shoulder holster, the silver-plated pistol that had ended Don Carmine Moretti.

He knew Vanessa was inside. Her personal perfume—a sickly sweet combination of jasmine and bitter almonds—hung faintly in the humid maritime air.

"You came alone, Adrien," Vanessa’s voice echoed through the vast warehouse, bouncing off the metal walls. It sounded distorted, coming through a loudspeaker system rigged to the rafters. "How predictable. The great, untouchable Don Hudson, rushing to finish what he started."

Adrien didn't answer. He swept his weapon across the second-floor catwalks, stepping silently past crates of abandoned machinery.

"Do you know what hurts the most, Adrien?" Vanessa’s voice purred, tinged with madness. "It wasn't the fire that scarred my face. It wasn't watching my father bleed out in his dining room. It was seeing you look at that plain, pathetic schoolteacher the way you were supposed to look at me!"

"You were never going to have me, Vanessa," Adrien spoke finally, his deep voice slicing through the rain. "You were a business arrangement. A contract written on paper. Elena is written into my blood."

A bitter scream tore through the speakers, followed by the sudden, deafening chatter of an automatic weapon from the high catwalk above.

Muzzle flashes lit up the dark warehouse. Adrien rolled behind a stack of steel drums as high-caliber rounds tore through the metal, spewing sparks and oil across the floor.

Without pausing, Adrien leaned out, firing three rapid shotgun blasts into the catwalk supports. The steel structure groaned and gave way, sending the shooter plunging twenty feet down into a wooden crate below.

Adrien advanced immediately, his weapon trained on the figure struggling in the splintered wood.

It was one of Vanessa's hired mercenaries, gasping for air with broken ribs. Vanessa was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is she?" Adrien demanded, pressing the hot barrel of the shotgun against the man’s temple.

The mercenary choked on a bloody laugh. "You... you really thought she’d wait here for you to kill her, Hudson?"

Adrien’s blood turned instantly to ice. "What did you say?"

"She knew you’d track the helicopter to Genoa," the man wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips. "It was a diversion, you arrogant bastard. She never stayed in Italy."

The mercenary raised a trembling hand, pointing to a small, glowing laptop sitting on an overturned oil drum nearby. On the screen was a live video feed from a maritime vessel, timestamped three minutes ago.

The camera showed the rocky shoreline of the French Riviera. The cliffs of Nice.

"The Corsicans didn't back Julian," the mercenary whispered with his dying breath. "They backed Vanessa. Her uncle was a Don in Marseille. They opened the back door to your fortress twenty minutes ago."

Adrien didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger, ending the man's breath, and turned on his heel, sprinting out of the warehouse into the torrential rain.

He ripped his satellite phone from his pocket, dialing Marco’s direct encrypted line as he jumped into his car, tires screeching against the wet pavement.

Static. Pure, dead static.

"Marco, respond!" Adrien roared into the receiver, slamming the accelerator to the floor, the car hurtling through the storm back toward the French border. "Marco! Elena!"