Tyrone pressed the cold metal of the golden-plated Uzi hard against Captain Russo's lips, forcing the muzzle into his mouth. The Captain's face was pale with terror, sweat pouring down his temples as his hands shook uncontrollably. Tyrone's eyes, burning with a quiet rage, never left the Captain's. He didn't need to say much. The threat was clear. Either Russo complied, or he'd die in that van like so many before him.
"Call your Sicilian friends," Tyrone ordered in a low, dangerous voice.
Captain Russo, his lips trembling around the metal barrel, nodded slightly. Leon yanked the phone from the Captain's pocket and handed it to him, already dialed. Russo's fingers shook as he pressed the button to call Don Santoro, the man overseeing the Sicilian mob's operations in the region. It was only a matter of time before Tyrone and his crew were discovered, and the police, working in tandem with the Mafia, were growing desperate to end this once and for all.
The phone rang once, twice, before the gravelly voice of Don Santoro echoed from the speaker. "Russo," the Don answered, his tone sharp. "What's happening? Do you have Tyrone?"
Captain Russo, swallowing hard, nodded even though the Don couldn't see him. "Yes," he stammered, the gun still pressed to his mouth. "I've got him… but I need to hand him over to you personally."
A brief pause, then the Don replied, "Good. Bring him to the morgue on Via di Fiori. We'll finish this quietly. No more games."
The call ended. Tyrone pulled the Uzi back, wiping the barrel on Captain Russo's sleeve. "You did good," Tyrone muttered, a cold satisfaction in his voice. "But if you try anything... you'll be the first to go."
The van sped off toward the morgue, the air inside tense as Tyrone's men prepared for the inevitable. They knew this was going to be a bloody standoff, and the plan was set. Captain Russo would be the distraction, allowing Tyrone's crew to move into position and take out Don Santoro the moment he stepped into the open.
As they arrived at the morgue, the air outside was thick with the stench of burning bodies, the crematoriums nearby churning out smoke into the evening sky. The place was eerily quiet, almost as if the entire world was holding its breath. Tyrone's crew kept low, watching from the van as Captain Russo was shoved out, forced to walk toward the doors.
From the shadows, Tyrone's men began to creep out, weapons drawn, eyes scanning for any sign of the Don. Inside the morgue, the dimly lit hallways echoed with the sound of distant footsteps. Don Santoro stood waiting, flanked by his guards, who seemed far too relaxed for such an occasion. That should have been the first sign something was off, but Tyrone's men, driven by adrenaline and the desire for blood, didn't notice.
Russo stepped forward, his hands raised as if in surrender, playing his part as Tyrone had commanded. "Here he is," the Captain called out, his voice cracking slightly. "I've brought Tyrone to you."
The Don, cigar in hand, took a slow drag and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. "Bring him in," he ordered, his voice calm, calculating. "Let's finish this business."
Just as Tyrone's men began to emerge from the shadows, moving into position to kill the Don, the sound of sirens pierced the night. The once-quiet morgue was suddenly illuminated by the flashing lights of police cars surrounding the building. It was a trap.
The entire Sicilian police force had been lying in wait, coordinated with Don Santoro's men. Tyrone's crew, outnumbered and caught off guard, opened fire. The crack of gunfire echoed through the morgue, bullets ricocheting off concrete walls, as Tyrone's men desperately tried to fight their way out. But it was hopeless. One by one, they were cut down. Leon fell first, a bullet tearing through his chest. Kato was next, his body riddled with shots as he tried to reload his weapon.
Tyrone, watching helplessly from behind a stack of crates, saw his men gunned down in front of him. His face remained impassive, but inside, his blood boiled. He had underestimated the reach of the Sicilian mob and their control over the local police. Now his entire crew was being wiped out in front of him, executed like dogs.
Just as the Don stepped forward, satisfied with the carnage, his phone rang. He answered, expecting it to be more good news from his network of informants. But when he heard the voice on the other end, his expression changed immediately. His once-relaxed posture stiffened as he listened.
It was Isabella Mendoza.
"Don Santoro," Isabella's voice purred through the phone. "I hear you've been having a little fun with my associate, Tyrone."
The Don's eyes widened, his hands tightening around the phone. He knew who Isabella was. The Mendoza family 's reach extended far beyond the Americas, and Isabella had connections even he dared not cross.
"This isn't your business, Isabella," Santoro said cautiously. "Tyrone's become a problem."
"Tyrone is my business," Isabella interrupted, her voice turning cold. "And if you value your little empire, you'll release him. Now."
There was a long, tense silence. Don Santoro, weighing his options, realized that crossing Isabella Mendoza would be a death sentence. Even the Sicilian mob couldn't stand up to the full force of the Mendoza Family. Finally, he spoke again, his tone begrudging. "Fine. He walks. But you tell Tyrone this is the last time."
Isabella's voice was ice-cold. "Don't worry, Don Santoro. I'll handle Tyrone myself."
The call ended, and Don Santoro, visibly shaken, gestured to the remaining officers. "Let him go," he muttered.
Tyrone, still hidden in the shadows, couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. His men were dead, but he had been spared. All because of Isabella. Slowly, he stepped out into the open, his Uzi still clenched tightly in his hand. The Don gave him a single look, filled with both hatred and reluctant respect.
"You got lucky today," the Don growled. "But don't come back to Italy. Next time, even Isabella won't be able to save you."
Tyrone said nothing. He didn't need to. He had just survived the impossible, but the price had been high. His crew was gone, but he still stood, alive to fight another day.
As Tyrone walked away from the morgue, blood splattered on his vest, his mind was already racing with thoughts of revenge. This wasn't over— by a long shot.