Chapter 6
The sun had begun to sink toward the horizon, bleeding streaks of violet and angry orange across the Long Island Sound.
On the main terrace, the white linen tablecloths were fluttering in the evening wind, several overturned by the concussive blast from the gatehouse. The scent of cordite and burning rubber drifted up from the lower driveway, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the trampled azaleas.
Romina stepped out onto the upper portico, her dark overcoat unbuttoned, the Glock held securely in her right hand at the low ready. Behind her, six capos had already taken tactical positions behind the stone balustrades, their tailored suits replaced by black plate carriers, submachine guns held tight to their shoulders.
Down on the lower lawn, three men in dark tactical gear were moving with disciplined speed through the ornamental hedges. Their weapons were suppressed, coughing short, rhythmic bursts of 9mm rounds that chipped stone off the terrace steps.
"Hold your fire until they clear the fountain," Romina commanded into her collar microphone. Her breathing was completely steady, her voice an anchor in the rising storm.
"They have night optics, Boss," Renzo warned from behind a marble pillar. "If they cut the main grid—"
"They won't get to the generator," Romina cut in. "Giacomo is already covering the utility tunnel."
Suddenly, from the lower garden path, a figure came stumbling through the rhododendrons.
It was Aldric.
He was drenched in water from the bathhouse, his dinner jacket gone, his white shirt torn across his chest. He was running blindly toward the terrace stairs, screaming at the top of his lungs, his arms flailing in pure panic.
"Stop shooting!" Aldric wailed toward the advancing tactical team. "I’m Aldric Bellamere! I gave you the transponder! I'm on your side!"
The lead gunman in tactical gear didn't break stride. He raised his suppressed carbine, leveled it directly at Aldric’s chest, and squeezed the trigger.
Two rounds struck Aldric in the right shoulder and hip.
He spun around with a shriek of agony, collapsing face-down into the soft dirt of the azalea bed, clawing at the crushed red blossoms as blood began to pool through his soaked linen shirt.
"Target identified," the shooter barked over their tactical channel, his voice carrying up the stone steps. "Clear the outer perimeter. Secure the direct line heirs on the second floor!"
Romina’s eyes turned to black obsidian.
"Now," she whispered.
On her command, the six capos on the upper terrace unleashed a synchronized wall of gunfire.
The roar of unsuppressed automatic weapons shattered the evening silence, obliterating the aristocratic facade of the estate. The lead gunman was torn apart before he could raise his barrel, pitching backward into the stone fountain basin in a violent spray of pink water. The second shooter dove behind a marble statue of a dancing nymph, the stone exploding into white dust and shrapnel under the relentless hail of copper-jacketed rounds.
Romina stepped forward to the balustrade, raised her Glock in a steady, two-handed grip, and fired three deliberate shots through the foliage where the third gunman was attempting to flank the stairs.
A muffled grunt followed, and a heavy body tumbled out of the bushes, rolling down the grass until it rested motionless at the base of the terrace.
Silence slammed back down over the lawn, broken only by the crackle of a burning tire at the gatehouse and Aldric’s pathetic, bubbling groans from the flower bed.
"Renzo," Romina ordered, not lowering her weapon. "Clear the lawn. Drag my cousin up to the terrace. Do not let him bleed out—I have more questions for him."
"Yes, Boss."
As Renzo moved down the stairs with three men, Romina’s satellite phone vibrated violently against her ribs. She pulled it from her pocket, answering on speaker.
"Romina," a voice purred through the line—rasping, cigarette-stained, and carrying the heavy, flat cadence of Boston’s north shore. "Your cousin was remarkably cheap to buy. But you always were the stubborn one in the Bellamere bloodline."
May you like
Romina’s jaw tightened. "Dominic Monticello."
"Happy birthday to the boy, Romina," Dominic laughed, a dry, rattling cough. "Did you like the trash box? We wanted to make sure he understood what his future looks like. Because while you're busy shooting my foot soldiers on your pretty lawn, my real team is already inside your walls."
