Chapter 8
Within ninety seconds, the bright, festive birthday hall was transformed into a fortified bunker.
The warm overhead lights died, replaced by the faint amber glow of the stone fireplace and the sharp, tactical blue of emergency backup lamps. Frank and two sentries escorted the civilian guests and wives down into the reinforced wine vault beneath the kitchen, locking the steel blast door behind them. Twelve Bellacorte soldiers in tactical dark suits took up positions behind the timber pillars, their suppressed carbines held at the low ready.
Outside, the roar of high-powered engines cut through the howling blizzard. Four black SUVs slid onto the circular gravel drive, their tires spitting snow as they came to a halt fifty feet from the grand portico.
The doors flew open. Ten men in heavy winter parkas and ballistic vests spilled out onto the snow, raising automatic weapons.
At their head stood Julian Vance—forty-five years old, broad-shouldered, wearing a fur-collared leather coat, carrying a gold-plated walking stick. His fair, rosy face was split into an arrogant, predatory grin as he strode toward the entrance, confident that Mark had paved the way.
Julian kicked open the heavy front doors, stepping into the dim, shadowy entrance hall.
"Good evening, Richard!" Julian’s New York drawl echoed through the vaulted space. "Happy birthday, old man! I hear the heating in this place is fantastic!"
Richard Bellacorte stood alone in the center of the hall, directly before the fireplace, completely unshielded. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his dark vest and tailored trousers, his crisp white sleeves rolled back to his forearms. A customized matte-black 1911 pistol hung loosely in his right hand.
"You're trespassing on Bellacorte land, Julian," Richard said, his slow, measured baritone carrying effortlessly through the darkness. "I don't recall sending an invitation to a dog."
Julian laughed, tapping his walking stick against the timber floor. "Your son sent the invitation, Richard. Signed, sealed, and delivered with the gate codes. He told me the old wolf was finally ready to roll over."
Julian’s eyes drifted toward the floor, spotting Mark and Claudia huddled beside the overturned gift table, bruised, bloody, and weeping.
"Looks like you started the party without me, Mark," Julian sneered. "What's the matter? Did Daddy not like the idea of early retirement?"
Mark didn't answer. He buried his bloody face in his hands, trembling like a child.
"Mark isn't retiring me, Julian," Richard said softly, taking a single, unhurried step forward. "Mark is being evicted. And you have committed a fatal error."
"Is that right?" Julian scoffed, motioning with his fingers to the four mercenaries behind him. "Look around you, Richard. I have twenty men surrounding this lodge. We have the access roads blocked. The local sheriff took a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit to stay in town until morning. You’re alone."
"I am never alone in my own house, Julian," Richard replied, a faint, devastating smile touching his lips.
Richard snapped his fingers once.
May you like
From the second-floor mezzanine, the dark timber balconies, and the adjoining dining hall, eighteen high-intensity green laser sights snapped to life simultaneously.
Every single mercenary in the foyer was painted with multiple crimson and emerald dots—aimed at their chests, their throats, and the bridges of their noses.
