Chapter 8
Outside, the distant rumble of high-powered engines echoed through the mountain pass. The crunch of studded tires over packed snow grew louder, accompanied by the sharp sweep of halogen searchlights dancing across the high timber windows.
Richard turned toward his men. The grandfather was gone; the ruthless Don had taken his place.
"Lock the side entrances," Richard commanded, his voice cutting through the panic with surgical precision. "Kill the main chandeliers. Bring up the secondary tactical lights. Frank, move the civilians into the reinforced wine vault beneath the kitchen."
"Yes, Don Richard!" Frank answered, immediately ushering the frightened wives and junior associates down the stone corridor.
Within ninety seconds, the bright, festive lodge was transformed into a fortified bunker. The warm overhead lights died, replaced by the faint amber glow of the stone fireplace and the sharp blue hue of perimeter tactical lamps. Twelve Bellacorte soldiers took positions behind the stone pillars and balcony railings, their suppressed carbines held at the low ready.
Richard walked over to the coat rack near the entrance. He picked up his backup weapon—a customized matte-black 1911 pistol with pearl grips—checked the slide with a crisp snap, and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket.
He looked at Mark and Claudia, who were cowering beside the collapsed gift table.
"Get up," Richard said.
"Richard, please!" Claudia sobbed, covering her face. "They have assault rifles! They’ll shoot us!"
"Get on your feet, or I will drag you out to the terrace myself," Richard said, not raising his voice.
Mark dragged his wife up, both of them trembling so hard their teeth clicked together.
The heavy front doors of the lodge were kicked open from the outside.
A wall of freezing air and swirling snow rushed into the hall, carrying the smell of exhaust and pine needles.
May you like
Stepping through the threshold was Julian Vance—a broad-shouldered man of forty-five, wearing a fur-collared leather coat, flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries in tactical winter gear. Julian held a gold-plated walking stick, his fair, rosy face splitting into an arrogant, predatory grin as he took in the darkened room.
"Good evening, Richard," Julian Vance called out, his New York accent thick and mocking. "Happy birthday, old man. I hope you saved a slice of cake for your neighbors."
