Chapter 10
The blinding white floodlights of the eastern perimeter illuminated the relentless rain like thousands of falling silver needles. The bright, vivid green of the manicured lawns was quickly turning into a muddy, chaotic battlefield. Rafael stepped out onto the sheltered terrace, the cold wind whipping the tails of his dark suit jacket.
Silas was already there, crouching behind a stone balustrade, firing controlled bursts from an assault rifle into the dark tree line.
"They breached the outer fence!" Silas shouted over the deafening roar of gunfire, his American accent strained. "There are at least forty of them! Chicago sent a hit squad!"
Rafael didn't flinch. The deeply masculine, intimidating aura of the Mafia boss was now fully unleashed in combat. He raised his sidearm, tracking the movement in the trees. The fair, rosy skin of the Chicago mercenaries was visible in the harsh glare of the security lights as they attempted to sprint across the open lawn.
Rafael fired three rapid shots. A man in the distance crumpled into the mud.
"Hold the line!" Rafael roared, his voice booming over the chaos. "Nobody crosses the pavement! Push them back into the woods!"
The Castellano guards laid down a punishing wall of suppressing fire. The air was thick with the smell of cordite and wet earth. The bright, cinematic violence was terrifyingly clear. Beatrice had kept her promise; she had unleashed hell on her own home.
Suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the main gate on the opposite side of the estate. The ground shook violently, throwing several guards off their feet. A plume of bright orange fire erupted into the night sky, casting a surreal, demonic glow over the pristine mansion.
"They hit the front gate!" Silas yelled into his radio, frantically trying to get a status report. "Boss, it's a two-front assault! We are being flanked!"
Rafael stared at the rising flames. The tailored suit, the polished shoes, the immense wealth—none of it mattered in the face of this absolute destruction. He had chosen his daughter over the empire, and now the empire was burning around him.
But as he loaded a fresh magazine into his weapon, a cold, lethal smile touched Rafael's lips. Beatrice thought he would break under the pressure. She thought the Chicago outfit would overwhelm him. She was wrong.
May you like
"Let them come," Rafael muttered to himself, stepping out from the cover of the stone balustrade and marching directly into the pouring rain. "Let them all come."
The storm raged on, the gunfire echoing endlessly into the night, the fate of the Castellano throne hanging violently in the balance, waiting for the dawn to reveal who would survive to claim the crown.
