Chapter 7
Lorenzo crushed the satellite phone beneath the heel of his polished shoe, grinding the plastic and silicon into fine dust against the concrete.
"Lorenzo, please!" Ramona shrieked from the corner, bursting into hysterical tears as she threw herself forward off the feed bags. "I didn't know Carmine was sending hitmen to the club! Marcus told me they were just going to take the papers from Alina's dressing room! I swear to God on our grandmother's soul, I didn't want Lucy to get hurt!"
Lorenzo stood up, looking down at his cousin with pure, unadulterated disgust.
"You shoved my three-year-old child off a four-foot ledge, Ramona," Lorenzo said, every word hitting her like an anvil. "You don't get to speak our grandmother's name."
He turned toward the iron door, knocking once. Frank pulled it open immediately, his face taut with adrenaline.
"Boss," Frank reported, holding an automatic carbine at the low ready. "Motion sensors on the northern perimeter road just tripped. Two black delivery vans. They breached the gate by cutting the padlock."
"How many men?" Lorenzo asked, fastening the buttons of his shirt cuffs with absolute calm.
"Eight to ten. Heavy tactical gear, suppressed weapons," Frank replied. "They think the club is full of unarmed civilians and drunken donors."
"Take three men to the roof of the main pavilion," Lorenzo commanded, slipping his dark suit jacket back over his shoulders. "Tell Valerio to keep the heavy armor on the clubhouse door. Nobody fires until the vans clear the tree line beside the stables."
"Understood, Don Lorenzo."
Lorenzo walked out into the bright, sun-drenched corridor beneath the grandstand. The afternoon sky was still an impossible shade of brilliant blue, but the open polo grounds were now a tactical kill zone. Along the white rail fences, six Carbone soldiers in dark suits had already taken cover behind the horse trailers, their weapons drawn and concealed beneath their coats.
From the northern gravel road, the low, predatory rumble of heavy diesel engines echoed across the turf.
The two delivery vans rounded the corner of the polo barn, moving fast, their tires spitting gravel. They were unmarked, painted in matte grey, their windows tinted opaque black.
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Lorenzo stood directly in the center of the manicured lawn, right beside the collapsed polo-mallet display. He didn't take cover. He didn't draw his gun. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, and entirely exposed in the blinding sunlight, his dark overcoat billowing slightly in the crisp autumn breeze.
The lead van slammed on its brakes forty yards away, sliding sideways across the turf, its sliding side door flying open with a violent metallic screech.
