Chapter 7
The heavy oak service door blew inward with a deafening roar of splintering wood and acrid gray smoke.
Two men in black tactical gear and ballistic helmets spilled through the opening, their short-barreled carbines sweeping the room. The lead shooter didn't even register Godwin’s position before two thunderous, unsuppressed rounds from Godwin’s .45 tore through his throat and chest, pitching him backward into the debris.
The second shooter fired a wild burst that stitched across the head table, shattering the crystal water goblet into a thousand glittering shards and shredding the linen.
Godwin didn't flinch. Holding Lottie securely against his ribs with his left arm, he shifted his stance two inches to the right, using the heavy mahogany frame of the table as cover, and put a single round through the shooter’s visor. The man collapsed like a dropped sack of wet cement.
"Kane! Cover the western pantry!" Godwin barked over the ringing in his ears.
"On it, Boss!" Kane shouted from behind the overturned dessert cart, his submachine gun chattering in tight, three-round bursts as more muzzle flashes strobed through the smoke of the kitchen corridor.
Lottie didn't scream. Her small fingers were dug into Godwin’s lapel with terrifying strength, her face pressed so hard against his neck he could feel the frantic, fluttering rhythm of her pulse.
"Keep your eyes closed, little bird," Godwin murmured into her hair, his voice as calm as if they were reading a bedtime story in the library. "Almost done."
"I'm not scared, Grandpa," Lottie whispered, her voice muffled by his collar. "Mommy said you're stronger than all of them."
A cold, grim smile touched Godwin’s lips. "Your mother is a very smart woman."
Across the room, Marcus was crawling on his belly toward the piano, his hands covering his ears, weeping openly. "Stop shooting! I’m Marcus! I’m the one who signed the contract! Don't shoot!"
A third breacher stepped through the smoke, his carbine leveled straight at Marcus’s head. The man didn't hesitate; he squeezed the trigger.
A three-round burst ripped through Marcus’s shoulder and ribs. Marcus shrieked, rolling onto his back, blood spraying across the polished wood as he convulsed against the piano leg.
"Told you they didn't leave witnesses, Marcus," Godwin said coldly from behind the head table.
Before the shooter could pivot toward Godwin, Kane’s burst caught him in the side, spinning him into the doorframe before he crashed to the floor.
Silence returned to the ballroom, thick with the smell of cordite, blood, and ozone. The ventilation fans hummed high in the ceiling, slowly dragging the gray haze toward the vents.
Godwin stepped out from behind the table, his shoes crunching softly on the shattered remains of the poisoned goblet. He walked over to Marcus, who was choking on red foam, his eyes wide and unfocused.
"Marcus," Godwin said.
"Godwin..." Marcus wheezed, his fingers clawing at the crimson stain spreading across his tuxedo. "The... the contract..."
"Who sent the team, Marcus?" Godwin asked, looking down at his dying cousin. "Not Moretti. Moretti uses street soldiers from Brooklyn. These men are private military contractors. Who paid the wire?"
Marcus swallowed hard, blood bubbling over his lips. "The... the trust in Geneva. Your... your brother's trust."
Godwin went rigid. Every muscle in his broad frame turned to stone.
"Julian is dead," Godwin said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "Julian died in a plane crash over the Alps five years ago."
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Marcus let out a rattling, bloody chuckle that ended in a cough. "He... he walked away from the wreckage, Godwin. He’s been in Milan the whole time."
Marcus’s head rolled to the side. His eyes stayed open, staring blankly at the crystal chandelier above, his final breath escaping in a faint, shuddering hiss.
