(VALENTINO'S POV)
My rifle kicks against my shoulder until it clicks empty, shells smoking at my feet. Reinforcements keep pouring in, armored bastards with shields braced, rifles raining bullets down the corridor.
"Reloading!" Leo shouts beside me, his gun snapping back into his grip as he leans into the firefight.
I duck, gritting my teeth, and charge at the nearest prick, slamming him against the wall so hard the plaster cracks. His rifle clatters to the floor. I rip his helmet clean off, grab his head with both hands and smash it against the wall, again and again, until his body collapses like dead weight.
I barely catch my breath when another charges with a riot shield. The bastard slams me to the ground, my mask skidding off across the tile.
He cocks his gun and aims his gun at my face.
Not today, asshole.
I grab the discarded gun at my side and put a bullet straight through his throat. Blood sprays, his shield slips from his grip, and he crumples at my feet. I snatch my black viper mask off the ground and put it back on.
"Move!" I bark, forcing myself up. My men scoop their duffels of cash and we tear down the corridor until we burst through the exit.
Bruno's already there with his squad, tossing gold-filled bags into the convoy of armored vans waiting for us.
Leo's eyes sweep over everyone, his chest heaving. "We're not all out yet. Where the fuck are Sandra and Michele?"
Bruno raises his hands, frustration written all over his face. "Haven't seen them."
I slam a finger to my earpiece, "Sandra, Michele, report! Where the fuck are you?"
Michele's voice crackles back through static. "Almost at the exit, boss."
That's when I hear it.
Sirens, dozens of them. My gut twists.
Police cruisers pull up on both sides, screeching to a stop as doors fly open. Officers swarm out, weapons drawn, floodlights cutting through the smoke.
"This is the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police!" a voice echoes through a megaphone. "You are surrounded. Drop your weapons now!"
Bruno answers with a bullet right between the bastard's eyes.
Gunfire explodes. Bullets rip through the air, sparks showering off metal as we duck behind the vans. One of the cruisers bursts into flames, the blast shaking the pavement. Men scream. Some of ours go down, some of theirs. The whole parking lot turns into a fucking warzone.
"Boss!" Leo shouts, pointing.
Sandra and Michele burst through the exit doors, sprinting like hell with their squad right behind them.
"MOVE!" I shout, waving them over. "Get in the van!"
They dive in, bullets whizzing past them. Sandra stumbles inside, clutching her bag to her chest as the door slams shut behind her.
I rip two grenades off my vest, pull the pins with my teeth, and hurl them into the swarm of cops on both sides.
"GRENADE!" someone yells. "GET DOWN!"
The blasts rip the ground apart, throwing cars and men into the air. Smoke and fire fill the air.
"DRIVE!" I roar.
Engines scream. The convoy peels out of the lot, tires shrieking, the sound of chaos fading behind us as the city lights swallow us whole.
Sandra leans back against the wall, chest heaving, her face slick with sweat. She lifts the flash drive in trembling fingers, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"Everything we came for."
I take off my mask, reach across, and snatch it from her hand.
A grin spreads across my face.
"Then I guess we just became the most wanted people in the country."
—
Later that night, I'm sitting in the penthouse, with a glass of Barolo in my hand, and the TV blasting with breaking news.
The headline stretches across the bottom of the screen in bold red.
"BLACKSTONE CAPITAL HEIST — BIGGEST ROBBERY IN U.S. HISTORY."
Clips from the bank's security cameras play on loop. Grainy footage of masked men storming the lobby, firing shots into the air, shoving terrified civilians to the ground.
The news anchor says, "The assailants remain unidentified due to the black masks they wore, though law enforcement sources have gathered that they're a gang that call themselves, 'I Figli della Vipera', which means, The Sons of The Viper."
I smirk at that.
Then the footage shifts. My stomach knots for the first time since the heist.
A side profile of me flashes on the screen. That split second my mask slipped. Clear enough to make me spit out my wine.
"Oh, shit!"
The anchor continues. "This unidentified suspect is believed to be of foreign origin and is now a person of interest to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Any information that may lead to his arrest is encouraged."
My phone buzzes non-stop on the table. I pick it up and scroll.
Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, all of them exploding like fireworks.
My face is everywhere, trending worldwide, #MafiaDaddy.
I laugh so hard I nearly choke on the wine. Half the internet wants me in jail. The other half wants to climb on my lap and call me daddy.
Some even want both.
To be honest, I should care about the FBI breathing down my neck, social media dissecting my profile like vultures, but none of it fucking matters.
Because we hit the jackpot.
Fifty million in cash. Two hundred and eighty-five million in solid gold. And four hundred and fifty-two million stripped clean out of offshore accounts.
Almost eight hundred million in one night. Nearly eight times what those Red Devil bastards stole from me.
And the flash drive Sandra put in my hands? That's my shield. Every dirty secret of the elite written in ones and zeroes. If the feds come sniffing, I'll dangle it over the throats of billionaires and senators alike. They'll make the problem go away before their little hobbies ever see daylight.
So no, I'm not scared. I'm not running. I'm not hiding.
I lean back in my chair, swirling the wine in my glass, eyes fixed on the Vegas skyline because…
I'm completely untouchable.
—
CITY OF VIBO VALENTIA, CALABRIA, ITALY.
(MARCELLO'S POV)
The cigarette burns, pressed in between my lips as Arianna, my consigliere, stands next to me with her tablet in her hands, playing me the footage the whole world is watching.
My son, Dante, sits at my side, his eyes fixed on the screen.
"I got in contact with the bank," Dante says. "They made off with almost eight hundred million." He swallows. "We lost two hundred and four million tonight, Papà."
For a moment I say nothing. The smoke fills my lungs and I let it out slowly. I fold my hands into fists until my knuckles turn white.
"I had our people trace the transactions to the accounts the money got wired to," Arianna adds, "...they hit a dead end."
She pauses the clip the second a side profile of a young man comes into view. Before I even ask for his name, she says, "That's Valentino Vipera, Salvatore's son."
I stare at the man on the screen, gritting my teeth as I picture ripping his jaw apart with my bare hands.
"Questo piccolo figlio di puttana," I growl. (This little son of a bitch.)
Dante's face hardens. "We can't let that Vipera scum get away with this. We have to deal with hi—"
"We will," I cut him off, as my grin slowly spreads across my face. "We'll take everything from him, eventually. And when I'm finished with him, he'll regret the day his whore of a mother birthed him."