Chapter 10
The violent explosion shattered the heavy oak doors of the master suite, blasting them inward in a storm of splintered wood and twisted metal. The bright, cinematic lighting of the room flickered wildly as thick, gray smoke billowed through the breached entrance.
"Fire!" Vincent yelled.
The deafening roar of automatic gunfire erupted inside the suite. The loyal bodyguards unleashed a relentless barrage into the smoke-filled corridor, tearing into the first wave of Dominic’s mercenaries as they attempted to rush the room. Screams and the heavy thuds of falling bodies echoed over the gunfire.
Angelo remained perfectly still in his custom black wheelchair in the center of the room. He didn't spray bullets blindly. With terrifying, predatory patience, he tracked the movement through the smoke. When a hostile shape broke through the haze, Angelo fired. One shot. One kill. The high-caliber weapon in his tattooed hand barked with lethal precision, dropping three attackers before they could even raise their rifles.
"Push in! They can't hold us!" Dominic screamed from the hallway, safely shielded behind his hired guns.
A mercenary dove into the room, rolling behind a heavy leather armchair. He raised his weapon, aiming directly at the paralyzed Mafia boss. Before the man could pull the trigger, Angelo smoothly pivoted his wheelchair, locked his cold, sharp eyes onto the target, and fired a single round through the leather, striking the man perfectly in the chest.
The firefight was a chaotic, bloody stalemate. Vincent and the remaining guards were laying down a punishing wall of lead, but they were running low on ammunition. The smoke was thick, the noise deafening.
Suddenly, a heavy, metallic clatter echoed from the hallway.
A cylindrical object bounced across the pristine marble floor and rolled directly into the center of the master suite, stopping just a few feet from Angelo’s wheelchair.
It was a military-grade flashbang grenade.
"Cover!" Vincent roared, diving behind the mahogany desk.
Angelo didn't have time to move his chair. He threw his arms up to shield his eyes as the grenade detonated with a blinding, catastrophic flash of white light and an ear-splitting concussive boom. The shockwave rattled the windows and temporarily deafened everyone in the room.
Through the ringing in his ears and the blinding spots dancing in his vision, Angelo saw the silhouettes of five men rush into the suite.
Dominic, his face a bruised, swollen mess, stepped through the smoke. He held a heavy shotgun, a manic, triumphant grin stretching across his broken jaw. He walked directly toward the center of the room, aiming the weapon right at Angelo’s chest. The loyal bodyguards were incapacitated, clutching their ears and eyes from the flashbang.
"I told you," Dominic sneered, his voice distorted through the ringing silence. "A cripple cannot hold the throne."
Angelo stared down the barrel of the weapon. He could not move his legs to dive for cover. His handgun had been knocked from his grip by the concussive blast. He was entirely exposed in the bright, cinematic light of the ruined suite.
But as Dominic placed his finger on the trigger, the sound of approaching, heavy rotor blades suddenly shook the very foundations of the estate.
The massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the suite exploded inward. The blinding spotlight of a heavily armed tactical helicopter cut through the smoke, illuminating Dominic and his men in a harsh, inescapable glare.
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Dominic froze, looking wildly toward the shattered windows as heavily armed operators began repelling down ropes onto the balcony. The cavalry had arrived, but neither Angelo nor Dominic knew whose flag they were flying.
Angelo leaned back in his wheelchair, his cold, intimidating eyes locking onto his cousin as the chaotic roar of the helicopter drowned out all sound, plunging the fate of the Bellucci empire into absolute, terrifying uncertainty.
