Friday, 2:47 p.m.
Tony's Pizza didn't look like five grand in cash. Grease-stained awning, busted neon sign flickering the word "P-zza," and two guys at a corner table arguing about last night's soccer match in rapid-fire Spanish. But Giulano knew better. He'd owned places like this—fronts that looked like nothing but moved serious money. This was the drop point. Runners always used it for the Friday handoff, quiet enough to go unnoticed, public enough to keep most heat away.
But today wasn't for amateurs. He stepped through the front door, hat pulled low, denim jacket two sizes too big to disguise Marcus's teenage frame. The bell over the door gave a cheerful little ding, oblivious to the violence about to unfold. The smell hit him immediately—oregano, old grease, and something else. Fear. Always smelled the same.
Behind the counter, Tony barely glanced up. Just mumbled, "Welcome to Tony's," in a thick Italian accent before returning to his phone. Tony was just the pizza shop owner—no bodyguards, no protection. But Victor was different. Victor worked for the Murphies and had two personal bodyguards with always. He felt safe because he worked for the Murphies. He was sure nobody would dare start a fight with them. Arrogant, Giulano thought. That's how empires fall.
He scanned the room with practiced eyes. Two men at the corner table—Victor's bodyguards. One had a gun barely concealed under a gray hoodie, the bulge obvious to anyone who knew what to look for. The other looked bored but his eyes never stopped moving. Classic watchers. The money was in the black leather satchel between them, propped against the grease-stained wall. One exit behind the kitchen. No windows. Two cameras—one real, one decoy positioned to make people think they had better coverage than they did.
Giulano made eye contact with Danny, who sat by the drinks fridge pretending to scroll through his phone. The kid's leg bounced nervously under the table, but he managed a slight nod.
2:49 p.m.
Behind the shop, Thirteen and Bishop were already in motion. Giulano could picture them—masks up, weapons ready, moving through the narrow alley like ghosts.
"Now," Giulano whispered into the burner phone, his voice barely audible.
The plan was surgical. In a minute, the back door would slam open. Thirteen would move in like a machine—rifle up, mask on, voice cold as winter. But then everything went sideways.
"Tony!" Victor's voice cut through the restaurant like a blade. He was standing now, pointing directly at Danny. "What is this kid doing here?"
Shit. Giulano hadn't planned for this. But he'd long learned to leave space in his schemes—for fate's cruel little plot twists.
Tony emerged from behind the counter, his hands already raised in apology. "I'm so, so sorry," he said in his thick Italian accent, sweat beading on his forehead. "We are so, so sorry, kid. But you have to leave." He gestured frantically at Danny.
Danny stood up, confusion written across his face. His eyes found Marcus—found Giulano—sitting at his table, and the question was clear: Did you calculate this too? Without waiting for an answer, Danny headed for the door.
"I told you I don't like kids near me when we do business!" Victor shouted, his paranoia spiking. His eyes swept the room and landed on Giulano. "And who's that guy?"
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was years of surviving in a world where hesitation meant death. But Victor's hand was already moving toward his jacket when the back doors exploded inward.
"Everyone down! Hands on the floor!"
Thirteen burst through like controlled violence, rifle raised, voice mechanically calm behind the ski mask. Bishop came right behind, swinging the fake gun like a club and screaming obscenities for maximum psychological effect.
Panic detonated through the small space. The corner table flipped, sending coffee and papers flying. One guard reached for his pistol—and that's when Giulano stood up.
"Don't," he said quietly, lifting his own gun. Just one bullet in the chamber. But something in his voice, something ancient and deadly, made the guard freeze mid-draw.
"Do you know what you're doing, kids?" Tony gasped from the floor, his accent thicker with fear. Even face-down on greasy linoleum, he could tell these were teenage voices behind the masks.
Bishop vaulted the counter in one fluid motion and grabbed the satchel. "Got it!"
One customer was sobbing. Another had wet himself. Thirteen was actually smiling behind the mask—the kid was enjoying this. Everything was under control. Giulano had calculated it to go exactly like this, chaos contained within precise boundaries.
But then Danny came back. The front door slammed open and there he was, holding Timo's rifle with shaking hands. "Hands up!" he shouted, trying to sound dangerous. This is not my plan, Giulano thought, ice forming in his stomach.
The moment of confusion was all it took. Thirteen turned toward Danny's voice, and in that split second of distraction, Victor's guard found his opening. The gunshot was impossibly loud in the closed space. Thirteen crumpled, blood spreading on the tiled floor.
"Down!" Giulano screamed at Danny, watching the guard's pistol swing toward his friend. Bishop was already diving for cover behind the counter.
Giulano had planned to save his single bullet, but watching the guard's finger tighten on the trigger, he made the choice that would haunt him. The pistol bucked in his hand. The guard dropped, a perfect hole in his forehead.
But the second guard was already up, gun trained on Danny, and Giulano's chamber was empty. Time slowed. In his old life, Giulano González would have had ten men to handle this. Now he was just Marcus Chen, a seventeen-year-old with an empty gun, watching his friend about to die.
The guard's finger began to squeeze the trigger.