DeLuca's Sin

(Luciano's POV) I always preferred working alone. Partners were an extra weight that slowed the pace of the job. The night was intense and frigid, with the low groans of cargo cranes resonating from across the docks. The warehouse before me appeared lifeless, rusty, and old; the kind that had witnessed more blood than rain. Four men already lay behind me, each with a clean bullet hole through their head. I moved into the building, each step I took was silent as I walked on the dirty and wet concrete. The air was heavy with oil and something metallic, obviously from dried blood, a single bulb flickering near the side entrance. Two men leaned casually against the wall, smoking and exuding boredom. I could clearly hear the faint sound of their radio playing in the background and the metallic sound of their rifle hitting the wall each time they moved. Observing them from behind a pillar, in this line of work, timing was everything. Any little mistake and you'd go cold. Drawing a breath, I decided to move in on the one closest to me first, but he already turned his head. Maybe he heard my breath, but that didn't matter because I was already moving. My hand moved faster than his thought, gripping the back of his neck and driving him forward into the wall. Satisfied when I heard the soft sound of his bones breaking, the red tip of his cigarette burned bright before it dropped. I pushed him aside and caught the second one's arm before he could raise his weapon, twisted his elbow until I heard a small pop. Shoving him to the ground, I took out the revolver I already had fitted with a silencer and sent a bullet into his skull. There was a cold expression on my face as I turned to the door; the keypad blinked red. Lorenzo had never trusted electronics; this was clearly for show. I pressed the code I last remembered —3-0-0-5-0-7— the date of his son's death. Beep, the lock clicked. Inside, the air was different, a contrast to all the rust and dirt outside. There was a stairwell to the left, corridors stretching into the dark. I gripped my gun with both hands, muzzle pointed towards the ground, fingers steady. From the weight of it, I knew I was down to my last two bullets; I had to be careful. I moved towards the stairs like the wind. At the top, two men stood near the railing, watching in opposite directions. One of them was chewing gum while the other was whispering something about a shipment. I could handle them without the gun; I put it back in the sheath. The gum-chewer didn't get a chance to respond before I slammed into him from behind, my forearm crushing his windpipe and dragging him backward. The other one turned, his eyes widening and his weapon already halfway up. I kicked the rifle aside with one leg, drove my knee into the gut of the gum-chewer with the other, and he went limp, gasping as I dropped him to the floor. I spun behind him and buried a punch into the second guard's jaw, once, twice, he spewed blood and stumbled backwards onto the railing, the metal screeching loudly. I caught him before he fell, hooked an arm around his neck, and twisted until it gave a brittle snap. His body awkwardly slumped to the floor. Squatting, I felt the pulse on the gum-chewer's neck. He was already dead, probably choked on his gum. I stood up, took a deep breath to center myself, and confidently began climbing the last three flights of stairs to Lorenzo's floor. The smell changed again — leather, whiskey. There were fewer crates and more carpets here. Two guards outside the door, stiff, serious, clearly better trained than the rest of them. This was dangerous as I was running low on ammo, but I was born for this. I stepped out of the shadows. The first guy saw the gun too late; my finger squeezed, one sharp and precise shot. He jerked, a red stain appearing under his collar as he collapsed against the door. The other shouted, fired the gun he had my way. The bullet hissed past my ear, close enough to burn. I dropped to the floor, rolled forward, the carpet brushing my knuckles. He tried to track me, panic already rising in his breath. I came up under his guard, slammed his wrist against the wall, the gun spun away, clattering on the floor and under a crater. I drove my elbow into his throat until I felt the cartilage give before dropping him. The hallway fell still again. I stood there, my heartbeat thrumming, face expressionless, the smell of gunpowder curling around me. A huge, smooth door right in front of me. My father's rule echoed in my head as I holstered the weapon, 'make Lorenzo's death personal. ' I flexed my fingers. They trembled once, not from fear. I couldn't deny I was enjoying this; a smirk appeared on my face as I nudged the door open with the toe of my shoe. The hinges creaked loudly and slowly. The guard I had shot earlier slid down as the door opened, leaving a trail of blood as he did. I stepped inside. The old wolf sat behind his massive cherry wood desk, his brown hair slightly disheveled, his suit jacket off and sleeves rolled up, with a tumbler half filled with amber liquid in one hand. He didn't even look surprised. "Luciano DeLuca," he said roughly, as if we'd arranged an appointment. But the sound that froze me wasn't his voice. It was the small, quick gasp from the corner. I didn't think there would be someone else in the room, a little girl at that. She stood there clutching her worn-out dress. Her blonde hair was also disheveled, and her face a bit sweaty. She must have heard the violence outside; her eyes were wide and wet. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Wrong place. I finally understood why this mission was personal. I felt the kill switch in my mind stutter. "Get out," I commanded. The words came out low and a bit husky. She hesitated. Lorenzo chuckled, "My niece. She likes to hang around while I conduct business. Go on, sweetheart, he won't shoot a child." Everyone knew the one rule I operated with, 'never mess with someone innocent'. Some thought it was a weakness. But, she, his 'niece'? Did he think I was stupid? My jaw tightened. "Now," I said with a rather soft tone this time. Like someone who had just recovered from a trance, she bolted for the side door. I tracked the sound of her footsteps until they faded down a stairwell. The silence returned. Lorenzo leaned back, raising his glass. "You've got manners. I'll give you that. Shame you came here to die." He said, taking a sip. I moved closer, circling the desk. "You talk too much." He smiled — the kind of smile that knows where the trap is set. His right shoulder dipped. A Gun. I moved. BANG. The shot exploded into the air, raw and deafening. I hit the floor, rolled behind the couch as splinters rained down. The room filled with the metallic stink of gunpowder. My years of training paid off. BANG. Another shot cracked the desk, and papers burst into the air like startled birds. He was shouting now, voice gravel-rough. "Your father should've killed me when he had the chance!" He’d gone old school — small pocket pistol, six rounds, he’d fired two, four left. His footsteps shifted. I could hear the scuff of his shoes and the creak of the chair as he rounded the desk. I waited until I saw the glint of metal over the couch's armrest, then moved. I came up fast, sweeping the couch aside with my body. BANG. I felt the burn graze past my left shoulder; that was sheer luck. Almost immediately, a sudden, sharp, gut-wrenching cry filled the room. My blood went cold instantly, my eyes wide, head spinning toward the side door, and there she was, the same girl I had ordered to get out, her eyes huge and glassy. Her dress bloomed dark red in the light. She swayed once, twice. Then she fell. My chest locked. Everything inside me froze. Lorenzo's voice was gone; the room, gone. Only the ringing and the sight of that small, still body by the door. BANG. The sound of another shot tore through the air. Slowly, the sounds started fading, the room around me tilting; "Lu?" Someone whispered close to my ear. "Lu?" I heard the voice again. I jerked awake. Beside me, a hand rested on my chest, golden brown hair spilled across my arm, warm and tangled. My wife, Alyssa Hart, eyes half asleep, half worried, searching mine. "You were dreaming again," she murmured. Her hazel eyes, visible now as she opened them fully, voice still caught in the morning haze. My throat moved up then down, but no words came. I turned toward her, forcing the faintest smile. I said, "Just noise in my head." She frowned, "You should see someone," she said. "It's getting worse." I kissed her forehead instead of answering. She watched me a moment longer, then sighed, curling back into my arms. Within minutes, her breathing evened out again, slow, steady. I lay on my back, tucking one arm beneath my head, the other wrapped around her as she snuggled closer. My gaze lingered on her — her long lashes resting against her skin, the faint rise and fall of her chest. My world, my salvation. But as I stared at her, the sound of gunshots still echoing in my ears, I couldn't stop the question that crept up from somewhere dark and buried: Would she still look at me the way she did… if she knew all I've done?