Chapter 8
The sprawling estate of the Bellcroft family was transformed from a luxurious wedding venue into a heavily fortified war zone in a matter of minutes. The bright, cinematic lighting of the exterior was killed, plunging the manicured lawns into darkness, save for the sweeping beams of tactical flashlights.
Lachlan Ashbury stepped out of the heavy front doors, shrugging off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. The crisp white fabric contrasted sharply with the dark night and the artistic tattoos covering his forearms. He drew a heavy, suppressed pistol from a shoulder holster, his sharp jawline set in stone.
“Are they holding at the gates, or have they breached the perimeter?” Lachlan asked his lead enforcer over the deafening sound of a distant explosion.
“They blew the southern gate, Boss!” the enforcer yelled over the radio. “They’re moving up the main drive. Three heavily armored SUVs. They’re firing wildly, trying to pin us down!”
“Do they expect us to cower in the mansion and wait for them to knock?” Lachlan asked, a cold, ruthless smirk touching his lips. “Order the men to flank them through the hedge maze. We catch them in a crossfire before they reach the courtyard.”
Lachlan didn't wait in the safety of the portico. He moved with the lethal, practiced grace of an apex predator, slipping into the shadows of the expansive gardens. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and burning rubber from the destroyed gate.
He navigated the familiar grounds effortlessly, flanking the advancing Moretti convoy. The heavy SUVs were crawling up the driveway, their headlights illuminating the flying dirt and gravel as Bellcroft enforcers rained fire down upon them from the upper balconies.
Lachlan reached the edge of the tree line, perfectly positioned beside the lead vehicle.
“Are you ready to show them what happens when they insult our family?” Lachlan whispered into his radio.
“On your mark, Boss,” came the immediate reply.
“Fire,” Lachlan commanded simply.
The ambush was devastating. From the darkness of the hedge maze and the tree line, a coordinated, brutal volley of automatic weapons fire tore into the side of the Moretti convoy. The element of surprise was absolute. The heavy SUVs skidded and crashed into one another, tires blowing out and engines catching fire under the relentless assault.
Lachlan stepped out of the shadows, his weapon raised. He fired with terrifying, cold precision, dropping three armed men who spilled out of the lead vehicle before they could even raise their rifles. His face was a mask of unyielding fury, the neatly trimmed stubble catching the flashes of gunfire.
The Moretti forces, realizing they had walked into a meticulously planned kill box, broke rapidly. The aggressive invasion turned into a panicked, desperate retreat. The surviving men scrambled backward toward the ruined gates, abandoning their burning vehicles on the pristine driveway.
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Lachlan walked slowly toward the wreckage, his leather shoes crunching on broken glass and spent casings. He approached the lead SUV, where the Moretti underboss was pinned beneath a shattered door, bleeding heavily from his shoulder.
“Did you honestly believe Clive Bellcroft had the authority to sell my empire, or did you simply underestimate my resolve to keep it?” Lachlan asked, standing over the wounded man, the barrel of his weapon aimed squarely at his chest.
