A sharp, percussive crack splits the evening quiet. Then another. Not fireworks. Not a car backfiring. The sound is too close, too specific. Gunshots. From the private street below.

Silence hangs for a single, suspended heartbeat. Then a volley of return fire, closer, angrier. The sharp tink of a bullet hitting metal—the gate? A car window shattering. A man’s voice, shouting in guttural Italian, is cut off mid-curse.

Your hand stills. The knife rests beside the half-chopped carrot. You don’t wait to hear more. You turn, leaving the vegetables, the knife, the simmering pot.

Your bare feet are soundless on the stairs. The master suite is dark, lit only by the dying ember-glow of the sunset. You go straight to Lorenzo’s side of the bed, to the heavy walnut nightstand. The drawer slides open without a sound. Your fingers close around the cool, familiar weight of the Beretta 92FS he keeps there, always loaded, one in the chamber. You check it by feel. The magazine is full.

From downstairs, a crash. The distinct, sickening sound of shattering glass. The security system’s soft chime—signaling a breached perimeter—is immediately followed by a heavier, final thump as the power cuts out. The ambient hum of the penthouse dies, plunging the bedroom into near darkness. The only light now is the bruised purple of the sky.

You move back to the top of the stairs. You don’t turn on the flashlight. You know this space in the dark.

A figure is silhouetted against the broken glass of the front door, clambering inside. Another follows. You can hear their harsh breathing, their muttered commands to each other. “Piano, piano… cerca la donna.” Easy, easy… find the woman.

You raise the gun. The first shot is deafening in the enclosed space. The muzzle flash briefly paints the hallway in stark, white light. The lead man stumbles back into the second. You fire again. And again. The shots are measured, controlled. You don’t waste bullets.

It’s over in less than ten seconds. A third man, who had been covering the rear outside, tries to flee through the ruined doorway. Your final shot catches him in the back. He falls forward onto the threshold.

Silence returns, thicker now, weighted with the smell of cordite and copper. Your ears ring. You lower the gun, your arm steady.

You walk down the stairs. The cool marble is wet under your feet. You don’t look down at the dark, spreading pools. You step around them, over the fallen shapes, and go to the kitchen island where your phone lies beside the abandoned cutting board.

The screen lights up your face as you tap his name. It rings once, twice. You can hear the low rumble of a car engine in the background of the call when he answers.