Chapter 8
Four masked gunmen in black tactical vests spilled out of the lead van, raising suppressed submachine guns to their shoulders. They had expected confusion, screaming socialites, and a target scrambling for safety.
Instead, they found Lorenzo Carbone standing alone in the center of the field, his hands resting easily inside his trouser pockets, his expression carved from ancient stone.
"Drop your weapons and step forward!" the point man barked, his voice muffled behind a ballistic mask. "Hands where we can see them, Carbone!"
Lorenzo didn't move a single muscle. He tilted his head slightly, a cold, mocking smile touching the corner of his lips.
"You took thirty pieces of silver from Carmine Moretti," Lorenzo’s voice boomed across the open grass, calm and carrying with terrifying authority. "And you didn't even check the roofline."
Before the gunman could process the words, the silence of the polo club was shattered by the thunderous, synchronized roar of high-caliber rifles from the pavilion roof.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The point man’s chest plate caved inward under the impact of armor-piercing rounds, dropping him instantly to the turf. The second shooter spun violently as a round shattered his shoulder, sending his weapon flying across the grass.
The remaining mercenaries scrambled frantically for cover behind the heavy tires of the delivery vans, returning frantic, unguided fire toward the grandstand. Bullets chipped the white wooden railings, sending splinters flying through the air.
Lorenzo moved with terrifying speed.
He drew his customized Colt .45 from beneath his tailored jacket, closing the distance toward the flank of the second van in three explosive strides. As a gunman leaned out from behind the rear bumper to aim at the roof, Lorenzo stepped into his blind spot.
Two deafening, unsuppressed shots from Lorenzo’s weapon tore through the gunman’s flank, dropping him into the dirt.
Lorenzo reached the side door of the second vehicle, ripped it open with his left hand, and hauled the driver out by his collar. The man, clad in body armor, crashed face-first onto the gravel. Lorenzo planted his polished leather shoe firmly onto the back of the driver's neck, pinning him to the ground.
From the stables and the paddock gates, twelve Carbone soldiers closed the perimeter with ruthless, military precision. The remaining three mercenaries threw their weapons onto the grass, raising their hands in desperate surrender.
The entire firefight had lasted less than forty-five seconds.
The smell of burnt cordite, spilled diesel, and hot brass mingled with the scent of crushed autumn grass.
Lorenzo looked down at the driver beneath his boot. He leaned down, pressing the smoking barrel of his pistol against the man's ear.
"Who authorized the breach, boy?" Lorenzo whispered softly.
"It... it was Carmine!" the driver gasped, choking against the gravel. "He’s at the marina! He’s waiting for the confirmation call on the yacht!"
Lorenzo lowered his weapon. "Frank."
May you like
"Yes, Boss?" Frank appeared at his shoulder, breathing evenly.
"Call the Coast Guard commandant in New Haven," Lorenzo commanded, his voice cold as a winter grave. "Tell him Carmine Moretti’s private yacht is carrying ten kilograms of unregistered contraband in the hull. Let federal agents board him before he clears the sound."
