Chapter 9
The fierce firefight at the front entrance of the estate raged with apocalyptic intensity. The bright, cinematic lighting inside the grand foyer cast stark, elongated shadows as Vincent's men unleashed a relentless barrage against the pinned-down Lupertazzi hit squad. The smell of cordite and shattered marble filled the air.
"Flank them!" Vincent roared over the deafening staccato of automatic gunfire. His deep, authoritative voice cut through the chaos, commanding absolute obedience. "Marcus, take a team through the conservatory! Hit them from the east side!"
"Moving!" Marcus yelled back, signaling a squad of five men who immediately peeled off, sprinting down the hallway toward the glass-enclosed conservatory.
Vincent leaned around the edge of his marble pillar, his cold, sharp eyes tracking the movements of the remaining attackers. They were huddled behind the bullet-riddled engine blocks of their tactical vans, returning sporadic, desperate fire. They were losing, and they knew it.
Suddenly, the sharp, chaotic chatter of gunfire erupted from the east side of the courtyard. Marcus and his team had engaged the flank.
Caught in a deadly crossfire, the Lupertazzi hit squad broke. Several men attempted to sprint toward the dark treeline, abandoning their cover. Vincent raised his suppressed pistol, tracking a running figure through the shattered front doors. He squeezed the trigger with lethal precision. The man dropped instantly onto the manicured lawn.
Within ninety seconds, the courtyard fell entirely silent. The assault had been brutally and decisively crushed.
"Cease fire!" Vincent commanded, stepping out from behind the pillar.
The deafening noise evaporated, replaced by the ringing in their ears and the soft groans of the wounded outside. The grand foyer was a war zone of shattered glass, pulverized marble, and thousands of spent brass casings glittering under the bright, pristine lights.
"Clear the exterior," Vincent ordered, his tailored three-piece suit remarkably pristine despite the violence. "No survivors. Secure the perimeter."
His men moved out cautiously, sweeping the courtyard with their weapons raised, executing the final, ruthless commands of their Boss.
Vincent took a slow, deep breath, the adrenaline slowly beginning to recede. He had defended his castle. He had crushed the immediate threat to his family. He turned toward the grand staircase, intending to go upstairs and retrieve Emma and Leo from the panic room.
As he placed his polished leather shoe on the first step, a sharp, buzzing sound interrupted the silence.
It wasn't his phone.
Vincent paused, his sharp eyes scanning the room. The sound was coming from a dark, tailored suit jacket resting on a nearby reception chair—the exact jacket Dominic had been wearing before he was hauled down to the basement.
Vincent walked over to the chair. He reached into the inner pocket of Dominic's ruined jacket and pulled out an encrypted, burner smartphone. The bright screen was flashing with an incoming video call. The caller ID simply read: CHICAGO.
Vincent’s jaw tightened. The artistic, masculine lines of his face hardened into a mask of pure, freezing intimidation. He swiped the screen to accept the call, holding the phone up to his face.
The video connected. On the screen was the face of Don Lupertazzi, a heavy-set, brutal man sitting in a luxurious office thousands of miles away.
"Dominic, you incompetent fool, tell me the estate is secured," the Don barked, his American accent thick and abrasive.
May you like
"Dominic," Vincent said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that instantly silenced the rival boss, "is currently bleeding on the floor of my basement."
Don Lupertazzi’s face froze on the screen, his eyes widening as he recognized the veteran Mafia Boss he had plotted to overthrow.
