Chapter 6 - Lead and Fire in the Mountain Lodge
Wood splinters filled the air like a lethal blizzard.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the darkened great room, casting wild, frantic shadows against the stone walls.
Lorenzo rolled across the hardwood floor, pulling Amelia tightly beneath him as a burst of submachine gun fire chewed up the Persian rug inches from their boots.
“Stay behind the oak pillar!” Lorenzo barked over the deafening roar of automatic fire.
Amelia clutched his arm, her knuckles white. “Enzo, there are too many of them!”
“There are never too many,” Lorenzo snarled, drawing his pistol with his uninjured hand.
He didn’t hesitate.
Leaning out from behind the reinforced wooden column, he fired three rapid shots.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Across the room, two Moretti mercenaries dropped instantly, their bodies crashing hard against the coffee table before sliding into the shattered glass on the floor.
Rocco, taking advantage of the sudden chaos, scrambled backward toward the hallway corridor, pressing his hand against his radio comms.
“Reinforcements! Breach the rear kitchen door! The boss is cornered!” Rocco screamed over the din of battle.
Lorenzo caught sight of the fleeing traitor out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh no you don’t,” Lorenzo muttered darkly.
He pushed Amelia further into the alcove. “Stay here. Do not move.”
Before she could protest, Lorenzo vaulted over the sofa, sprinting straight through the crossfire toward the hallway entrance.
Bullets sparked off the brass wall sconces, hissing past his ears, but he didn’t slow down.
He lunged through the doorway just as Rocco raised his rifle to fire.
Lorenzo slammed his boot directly into the barrel of Rocco’s gun, knocking it upward toward the ceiling.
CRACK.
A wild burst of bullets tore through the plaster ceiling, raining drywall dust down over their heads.
Rocco cursed, swinging a heavy right hook that caught Lorenzo squarely across the jaw.
Lorenzo’s head snapped to the side, the taste of copper filling his mouth.
He spat a glob of blood onto the floor, a dark, dangerous grin spreading across his face.
“That the best you’ve got, old friend?” Lorenzo taunted.
Rocco lunged again, drawing a tactical combat knife from his belt. “I made this syndicate what it is, Bianchi! You’re just a spoiled heir!”
As Rocco lunged forward with the blade, Lorenzo sidestepped with fluid, predatory grace.
He grabbed Rocco’s wrist, twisting it inward until bone snapped with a sickening pop.
Rocco shrieked in agony, dropping the knife as it clattered loudly against the floorboards.
Lorenzo delivered a devastating roundhouse kick straight to Rocco’s chest, sending the traitor flying backward through the study door, crashing heavily against a mahogany bookcase.
Rocco slid to the floor, gasping for air, clutching his broken wrist.
Lorenzo stood over him, his dark eyes devoid of any mercy.
“You traded twelve years of brotherhood for Moretti blood money,” Lorenzo whispered coldly, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol against Rocco’s forehead.
“Don’t—please, Boss—” Rocco whimpered, tears streaming down his face.
“Tell me where Victor Moretti is hiding,” Lorenzo demanded, cocking the hammer.
“Queens—Pier 42—warehouse district,” Rocco choked out, squeezing his eyes shut. “He’s holding Elena there. The bomb is set for midnight.”
Lorenzo’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Bang.
May you like
The shot echoed down the empty hallway.
Lorenzo stepped over the lifeless body of the traitor, grabbed a fresh ammunition magazine from the wall rack, and jogged back toward the great room where Amelia was waiting.
