“This isn’t your territory anymore,” Derek said, aiming the revolver at Vincent’s chest.

I watched from behind a wooden crate, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The heat from the burning fuel drum was growing, the flames licking at the rear bumper of the black sedan.

Just then, the heavy iron gates at the edge of the courtyard groaned.

They did not open slowly.

They were slammed inward by the front bumper of a massive black SUV.

Another vehicle followed it immediately, its headlights blindingly bright in the damp night air.

The tires screeched on the wet gravel, kicking up stones that pelted the wooden crates near me.

The doors of both SUVs flew open at the same time.

Six men stepped out, all of them dressed in heavy dark coats, carrying submachine guns.

At the front of the group stood a older man with a grey beard and a scarred chin.

It was Marcus Valenti, the head of the rival family.

“Lower the guns,” Marcus said, his voice carrying easily over the crackle of the fire.

Derek did not lower his revolver, but his eyes darted nervously between Vincent and Marcus.