It was an instant fight because the man was shooting from above, taking advantage of the spiral staircase that twisted upward. He had the high ground, and immediately, Matteo knew it might be a little trouble—but it wasn't a real problem for him.
Matteo moved slowly, holding the dead man's body tightly in front of him. Confident, he used gravity to his advantage—moving like a man untouchable." The bullets struck the body he was using as a shield, but none of them touched him. He stayed calm, still moving forward, unshaken.
The man above couldn't see Matteo clearly and felt relaxed, thinking one of his bullets must've already hit the intruder. He laughed and shouted down,
"You're always going to be beneath us! Don't worry, you tried to pick a fight with our master—our boss, Mario. You're just a kid! I don't know who made you mafia boss. You're all talk! How did you even—"
Matteo didn't respond.
By then, the gap between them had already closed. Matteo threw down the body he had been using as a shield and quickly surged upward.
Both men jumped at each other. The attacker tried to use the slope to push his weight downward. He reached for his gun—he had already tucked it away—but before he could aim, Matteo jumped and drove his fist into the man's face with everything he had. The man hit the floor hard.
Matteo climbed on top of him and started slamming his fists into his face. He preferred using his fists—he didn't want to waste bullets from his Italian-made Beretta 92, a gun he deeply loved. He knew there were more enemies ahead, so he planned to rely on his fists and knife for a while longer.
Then he heard something—a loud noise coming from above.
It was getting louder.
A group of goons, Mario's men, were coming together to attack him.
Matteo quickly moved away from the spiral staircase and headed up, toward the source of the noise.
No matter who he was fighting, if his hand touched them in any way during combat, they were as good as defeated—his brute strength guaranteed it.
What he brought was gone. Loot? Gone. Buried.
Matteo reloaded his Beretta 92 with bullets as he moved forward toward where the sand-covered hall was. They didn't notice he was coming; they were too busy rushing toward the stairs, trying to go downstairs. But they didn't know he was right there, in the passage they were using. Matteo was still at the corner, silent and waiting.
As they passed, he suddenly stepped out, stood straight, and opened fire.
They were armed—some with guns, others with sticks, and some with knives. The one in front had the gun, but Matteo shot him first. He kept walking forward, shooting as he went. Soon, the bullets in his Beretta 92 were finished, and there was no time to reload.
Without hesitation, Matteo slipped the gun into his suit pocket and rushed forward, jumping with inhuman speed. He swung his fists, sending men flying. He was ferocious—brute and fearless. Matteo was something else. His strength was beyond belief. He defeated every single one of them within five minutes.
By now, Matteo had already cleared most of the men, but he wasn't looking behind him.
Someone tried to sneak up from the back.
But Matteo was ready.
He turned swiftly, spinning and driving his elbow into the man's face. The sound of cracking bones echoed as the attacker's nose shattered. Matteo stared down at the man, who was now crumpled on the floor, barely conscious.
"You're such a loser. Is this all you've got? Is this what your crew has to offer?" Matteo said calmly, his voice steady even amidst the chaos around him.
He turned and launched forward with blinding speed, opening the door to the next room.
The next man came at him with a bat, swinging it wildly.
Matteo dodged the first swing effortlessly, like it was nothing. His body moved like he was programmed for combat—flawless, calculated. He stepped forward, disarmed the man with ease, grabbed the bat, and slammed it into his chest. The man hit the floor before he even realized what had happened.
One by one, more of Mario's men fell. Up to 250 men had been inside the mansion—but one by one, they were shot, knocked out, or killed. They dropped like flies before Matteo's relentless assault.
His movement was precise, brutal, and unforgiving. He didn't just beat them—he made sure none of them could ever rise again. He erased them from the fight, from the story, from existence.
Each step he took, each blow he delivered, reflected a man who wasn't just surviving—he was making a statement. He wasn't just a fighter. He fought with the purpose of proving that he was above everyone else in war. That no one could stand above him.