The final approach was underway. I was sequestered in the small, hardened cabin of the Italian missile boat, the Falco. The craft was a brutal blur of speed, cutting across the dark Ionian waves toward the coordinates of the San Vittore. Every vibration of the engine was a ticking clock against the final, inevitable showdown with Damon.
I had ordered the room cleared. Ivan was coordinating the perimeter from the tactical deck; Domenico was piloting the accompanying air support. I needed these moments, not to rest, but to compress the seismic force of my rage into a single, lethal point. Every calculated move, every execution, every alliance forged in the last week had been driven by the image of Isabella in that cold cell, giving birth alone.
I was cleaning the primary weapon, a speciali
