Chapter 9
Total darkness swallowed the Grand Belvedere Ballroom.
Screams erupted from the civilian guests as panic detonated through the pitch-black space. The emergency backup generators sputtered, but before they could kick in, the sharp, concussive crack of suppressed gunfire shattered the night.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the darkness like lightning strikes, illuminating brief, terrifying tableaux: men diving under tables, shattered glass raining from above, and shadow figures moving with military precision along the upper perimeter.
"Laura! Get to the mezzanine!" Vincent’s voice roared through the chaos, commanding and unyielding even amidst the storm.
Vincent didn't wait. In the darkness, he moved by instinct and lethal muscle memory. He closed the five-foot distance between himself and Marco Valenti in half a heartbeat.
His hand found the fabric of Marco’s trench coat, dragging the older boss forward while his other hand drove an open palm strike directly into Marco’s nose. Bone crunched. Marco let out a muffled scream, stumbling backward as his silver cane clattered across the floor.
One of Valenti’s tactical guards raised a submachine gun, the laser sight painting a crimson dot across Vincent’s chest.
Before the trigger could be pulled, Laura appeared from the shadows behind the guard. With terrifying ferocity, she grabbed a heavy silver champagne bucket from a server’s tray and smashed it with all her strength against the side of the gunman's skull. The man collapsed like a felled oak.
"David! Lock the door!" Laura screamed upward toward the balcony.
Upstairs, on the mezzanine, sixteen-year-old David stood outside the office door. Two masked infiltrators had scaled the exterior terrace, bursting through the French doors of the upper corridor.
David didn't run. He drew the compact revolver from his waistband, his hands trembling with adrenaline but his eyes locked onto the threat.
"Stay away from my sister!" David yelled, firing twice.
The first bullet clipped the wall; the second caught the lead infiltrator in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second attacker lunged forward, tackling David to the carpet. The teenager fought like a wild animal, biting, clawing, and thrashing to keep the man from reaching the office door where three-year-old Emma was hiding.
Down below, the emergency red halogen lights finally hummed to life, bathing the ruined ballroom in an eerie, blood-red glow.
Vincent stood over Marco Valenti, who was pinned against the floor with Vincent’s polished shoe planted firmly on his throat. The four tactical guards lay unconscious or dead on the marble, subdued by the overwhelming firepower of Vincent’s personal guard.
"Cease fire!" Vincent roared, his voice echoing like thunder across the crimson-lit wreckage.
The shooting stopped instantly.
Vincent looked up at the mezzanine. He saw David on the ground, bruised and bleeding from his lip, but sitting victoriously atop the subdued infiltrator, holding the empty revolver against the man's temple. Behind him, the office door opened slightly, and little Emma peeked out, holding her plush bear, looking down at the red-lit room with wide, frightened eyes.
Vincent felt a surge of fierce, overwhelming pride. His family had held the line.
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He looked down at Marco Valenti beneath his boot.
"Your breach failed, Marco," Vincent said quietly, his voice dripping with venom. "Now let's talk about the price of your life."
