Chapter 9
The estate was a battleground. The bright, cinematic lighting of the grand corridors flickered as the internal security systems struggled to reroute power around the damaged sectors. The crisp, white walls were now scarred with bullet holes, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of cordite and burning drywall.
In the master suite, the silence was agonizing. Emma sat on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped fiercely around a now-awake and crying Noah. The three-year-old buried his face in his mother's neck, terrified by the muffled sounds of destruction echoing from the lower floors.
Angelo sat perfectly still in his wheelchair, positioned directly in front of the heavy oak doors. His handgun rested loosely in his tattooed right hand. His eyes were cold, sharp, and intensely focused. He was tracking the progress of the firefight through the radio chatter and the subtle vibrations in the floorboards.
"They're pushing past the foyer, Boss!" Vincent shouted over the radio, his voice strained. "They brought heavy explosives. They blew the barricade! We are falling back to the second-floor landing!"
"Hold the stairs, Vincent," Angelo commanded, his voice a low, lethal hum that betrayed absolutely no panic. "Do not let them breach the west wing corridor."
"There's too many of them, Angelo!" Vincent coughed, the sound of shattered glass echoing through the comms. "Dominic brought in hired muscle from the outside! He sold out the territory to a rival cartel to fund this coup!"
Angelo’s jaw clenched so tightly the muscles ticked. Dominic hadn't just rallied rebellious capos; he had committed the ultimate treason by inviting rival mercenaries into their home.
"Fall back to my position," Angelo ordered instantly, prioritizing the lives of his loyal men over the preservation of the house. "Seal the corridor behind you. Let them come to me."
"Boss, you're a sitting duck in that room!"
"Do it, Vincent," Angelo growled, a terrifying, absolute authority ringing in his voice. "Now."
A few agonizing minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the suite burst open. Vincent and three surviving bodyguards poured into the room, their professional dark suits covered in dust and blood. They immediately spun around, slamming the heavy doors shut and engaging the heavy steel deadbolts.
"They're right behind us," Vincent gasped, reloading his weapon with shaking hands. "Dominic is leading them. He wants to execute you himself to legitimize his claim to the throne."
Angelo did not flinch. He slowly raised his handgun, aiming it perfectly at the center of the heavy oak doors. He looked back at Emma, his expression softening for just a fraction of a second.
"Get into the master closet," Angelo instructed her gently. "The walls are reinforced steel. Do not come out, no matter what you hear."
Emma didn't argue. She grabbed Noah and ran into the massive walk-in closet, pulling the heavy door shut behind them, plunging themselves into darkness.
"Positions," Angelo commanded his men. The bodyguards immediately took cover behind the heavy mahogany furniture, leveling their weapons at the entrance.
The heavy, thudding footsteps of a dozen men echoed in the corridor outside. The bright light seeping under the doorframe was suddenly blocked by the shadows of the attackers.
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"Angelo!" Dominic’s voice roared from the other side of the wood, his American accent slurred from his broken, wired-shut jaw, but dripping with psychotic triumph. "It's over! Open the door, and I promise I'll make it quick!"
"If you want this throne, Dominic," Angelo replied, his deep, measured voice slicing effortlessly through the thick oak doors, "you are going to have to walk through hell to take it."
