Neither of us could sleep, so we resorted to mom’s usual good remedy.  

 

Sex relaxes you. We managed a few hours.  

I woke a thousand times anyway. By morning I looked like a sick dog.

“You’re pale as a corpse,” Leanne said while buckling the ballistic corset around me.

“Scared shitless, admit it?” she grinned.

“Why lie.”

“We’re not even supposed to go in.”

“Then why the vest?”

“Precaution. Does it bother you?”

“No. Feels like nothing. Nothing like the old mission bricks we wore in my airborne days.”

“Latest-gen Kevlar. They call it Kevlar Comfort.”

“Comfort?”

“Yeah. Like your favourite cotton boxers, the ones that always let one ball hang out.”

“Won’t be very comforting if someone shoots me in the head.”

“Helmet would blow our cover. We’re not Al Jazeera reporters. Anyway, I brought something to keep us healthy.”

She opened a case: two pistols.

“Beretta M9 for you, Glock 19 for mommy.”

I weighed the gun, unsure.

“You still remember how to use it? They must have taught you something with the red berets…”

I nodded, though most of those memories were buried on purpose.

Macrí’s villa: big garden, pool, high walls topped with razor wire, cameras everywhere.

“Nicio problemă!”

‘No problem’. The muscle had keys. They’d brought two local thugs along for the ride, all looking like they’d slept in a dumpster: stubble, greasy hair, sunglasses in autumn.

Their blacked-out van stank of sweat, booze, and cheap cologne.

“Now we go. You stay in car, nice and quiet. We call you.”

Feodor laid out fat lines of coke on an old 2Pac CD case, snorted one, passed it on.

“Gentlemen, you’re dealing with a dangerous fucker. Don’t underestimate him,” Leanne warned.

“Dangerous? Say the old fart dangerous?!”

They laughed, arrogant.

Damian cracked a vodka bottle, took a long pull, passed it around.

“We’re men of Vlad Țepeș; we dangerous.”

He slapped the pistol under his jacket. Coke and vodka had them flying.

“Let’s go break Italian ass!”

Leanne just shook her head.

The four crossed the garden like they were invited for tea, rang the bell.

We waited across the street, leaning on the rented Alfa 4C.

Leanne watched through compact digital binoculars.

Door was open. They filed in.

Hell exploded almost instantly: handgun pops, then massive booms.

“That’s a fucking shotgun,” Leanne sighed, annoyed.

“Not looking good for the meatheads…”

More pistol fire, more thunder.

One body came sailing through the plate-glass window, landed hard among the garden gnomes, didn’t move.

“Damian’s gone, I’m afraid,” she said dryly, eye still glued to the lens.

Pistol shots thinned out. Only the deep roar of the shotgun remained.

One last goon staggered out the front door, clutching an arm that was barely attached, took four drunken steps and collapsed.

***

Riccardo had always seen Romania as temporary, until the heat died down.

Vladimir Chivu had the connections to get him settled in Russia for a while.

But after the Bordeaux ambush he knew he’d never see his old partner again.

Macrí had been around the block.

He had a sixth sense for betrayal.

He didn’t trust Sadoveanu one bit, so he prepared his exit: fake papers, two suitcases, the bare essentials, already in the armored Mercedes trunk.

Money? Plenty.

 

The last few days the Impaler’s bodyguards had turned openly hostile: ignoring him, coming and going as they pleased.

Feodor had even told him straight: “I don’t like Italians.”

Ricardo said nothing.

Started moving without escort.

Found what he needed from Serbian gypsies: sawn-off Benelli pump, .40 S&W, and—as a gift—two M67 grenades, old but gold.

When he saw the four idiots on the CCTV, he knew payday had arrived.

Earplugs in.

Door left ajar.

He sat in the armchair facing the hallway, shotgun across his lap, hidden under a newspaper.

Feodor walked in first.

“I don’t like Romanians either,” Ricardo said, and blew his face off.

Damian, sprayed with his friend’s blood, drew and fired wildly, ears ringing from the enclosed blast.

Missed everything.

The Calabrian didn’t. Two rounds sent him airborne through the window.

The others opened up in panic.

Ricardo rose calmly, backed down the corridor pumping and firing.

Chest shot. Shoulder shot.

The survivor ran out screaming, arm dangling by threads.

 

“I’m going in,” Leanne said, gun already up.

“Like hell you are,” I hissed. “You’re not going alone.”

“Fine, pain-in-the-ass. Stay five metres behind and cover me.”

“Five metres, like on patrol?”

She flashed a nervous grin. “Exactly, soldier. Watch your ass.”

We crossed the street, slipped through the garden, took position at the entrance.

Leanne risked half her head past the shattered window, pulled back, risked again.

“Blood everywhere. Can’t see the bastard.” She signalled. “I go through the door. You cover from the window. Don’t aim—just empty the mag and fuck everything. Got it?”

I nodded.

Right then came the mechanical growl: garage door rising, gate sliding open.

Macrí didn’t wait.

He smashed straight through the half-open gate in a black Mercedes G-Class, metal screaming.

Leanne didn’t shoot.

I emptied the whole fucking magazine.

“Wasted rounds. Armored,” she said.