The First Strike

                                    

                                          
The night was heavy with the scent of rain and the low hum of distant traffic. Amara stood in the shadow of the warehouse, her heart a drumbeat in her chest. This was the first real mission, the one that would set the tone for everything that followed. Nico's plan was laid out in front of her, a carefully calculated map of the city with pins marking key locations, places where power shifted like the tide and money changed hands in the dead of night.
Tonight's target was a small, well-guarded club on the edge of town. It was a place where deals were made, where the underworld of Chicago's most ruthless met to discuss their next move, and where cash, drugs, and information exchanged hands like currency. Nico had explained it as one of the last strongholds of their rivals, a family that had caused enough damage to warrant retaliation.
The warehouse team was small: Nico, Amara, and a handful of men with eyes that were as sharp as their knives. She had been trained in the past week, learning to blend into the darkness, to move like water around obstacles, and to listen to Nico's every command. But this was different. This wasn't a drill. This was real.
"Are you ready?" Nico's voice broke through her thoughts, low and steady.
Amara nodded, her mouth dry as dust. "Always."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't say anything. His hand reached out, brushing her shoulder briefly as he signaled for the others to move out. The group split into two, each section armed and focused, their steps silent against the cracked pavement.
Amara followed Nico, her nerves tight as she glanced at the men around her. They moved with purpose, their faces obscured by the dim glow of streetlights and the heavy hooded jackets they wore.
They approached the club from the back, where a narrow alley split the building from a neighboring bar. Amara felt the pulse of the city vibrate through her skin, the raw thrum of its heartbeat that promised danger and betrayal at every corner.
Nico pulled a metal crowbar from his jacket pocket, its edge catching the light as he positioned it against the back door. "This is where it starts," he whispered to Amara, his eyes never leaving hers.
Before she could answer, the door swung open with a loud, metallic screech that echoed down the alley.
The first guard appeared, a stocky man with a scar running down his cheek. He wasn't alone. Another guard emerged from behind him, an automatic weapon clutched in his hands.
"Not tonight," Nico muttered, lunging forward with a speed that made Amara's breath catch. He twisted the guard's arm and, with a sharp snap, sent him sprawling against the wall. The second man barely had time to react before one of the men from the warehouse crew, a lean man named Luca, stepped in and took him down with a brutal knee to the chest.
The rest of the team rushed inside, leaving Amara and Nico behind to guard the entrance. The club's interior pulsed with neon lights, the sharp strobe flashes illuminating terrified faces as they scrambled to hide or flee. Amara could already hear the shouts and the chaos inside, the screams of men who hadn't expected to be ambushed.
Nico pulled her into the club, the scent of sweat and smoke flooding her senses. The sound was deafening—music blaring, men yelling, glass shattering. Amara took in everything in a split second: the VIP section to the right, the long bar in the center, and the back exit that led to the loading docks. They had to move fast.
A shout sounded behind her, and Amara spun just as another guard lunged at her. Her instincts took over, and she sidestepped, grabbing a metal stool from behind the bar and swinging it around in a wide arc. The guard's face twisted in shock as the stool cracked against his ribs, sending him to the floor with a guttural grunt.
"You okay?" Nico called, his eyes searching hers in a brief, sharp moment of connection.
"I'm fine!" Amara yelled back, adrenaline flooding her veins. She didn't know if she believed it, but it didn't matter. She had to keep moving.
A sound drew her attention to the far end of the room. A man in a tailored suit was pushing his way through the crowd, his eyes locked on Nico's. Amara's stomach twisted as she recognized him: Dominic Marcelli, the man who led the rival family, the man who would put a bullet in Nico's head without hesitation if he got the chance.
"Stay close," Nico said, eyes still on Dominic.
Before Amara could respond, Dominic's voice cut through the noise, calm and chilling. "Well, well. It seems Nico Marino has come to play."
The crowd parted, and Amara watched as Nico stepped forward, the two men facing each other like gladiators in an arena. The air between them crackled with unspoken threats, a history so dark that it could have been carved in stone.
"Get out of my city, Dominic," Nico said, his voice low but strong.
Dominic smirked, adjusting his cufflinks as he tilted his head. "You think you can take me down with a handful of men and a girl who doesn't belong here?" His eyes flicked to Amara, and she felt her skin prickle under his gaze.
"She's the reason you're still breathing," Nico growled, stepping closer.
Amara couldn't hear the words exchanged between them, but she could see the flash of movement that followed. In an instant, the two men lunged at each other, fists and kicks flying in a dance of violence that spoke of years of hatred.
Amara moved, dodging the chaos and grabbing a nearby chair to block an incoming attack. The crash of glass and the shout of orders filled the club, but through it all, she focused on the fight in the center, on Nico's silhouette against the harsh lights.
One of Dominic's men noticed Amara's position and lunged at her, gun in hand. Time seemed to slow as Amara's heart leapt into her throat, but before he could get a shot off, Nico was there, slamming his elbow into the man's chest and knocking the gun from his hand. The shot rang out, a deafening noise that sent the room into a new level of chaos.
The fight raged on for what felt like hours, but as the last of Dominic's men fell, the club slowly quieted. The patrons who had survived fled to the streets, leaving the aftermath strewn across the floor: broken glass, blood, and the unmistakable scent of gunpowder.
Amara looked around, the reality of what she had just done sinking in. Nico approached her, his chest heaving as he surveyed the room. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but it was no longer filled with the anger and distance it had before.
"You're not just in this now," he said, his voice quiet, eyes locked on hers. "You're part of it."
Amara's heart skipped a beat. She wasn't sure if she should be afraid or exhilarated. Maybe it was both.
"Good," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Because I'm not going anywhere."