Chapter 25 - Fire in the Courtyard
The battle inside the Moretti manor was deafening. The scent of cordite, shattered marble, and burning velvet filled the air.
Dante drew two custom matte-black .45 caliber pistols from under his jacket. Rolling behind an upturned marble console, he surfaced and fired three controlled double-taps. Three mercenaries collapsed instantly, blood blooming against their tactical vests.
“Marco! Secure the north corridor!” Dante shouted over the din of gunfire. “Mateo, get up to the master suite! Protect Elena and Maria! If a single scratch touches that child, you will answer to me in hell!”
“On it, Boss!” Mateo fired his submachine gun into the smoke-filled doorway, forcing two attackers back before sprinting toward the grand staircase.
Dante advanced through the grand hall like a phantom. He was not a mafia boss who managed from behind a desk; he had earned his empire in the blood-soaked alleyways of Hell's Kitchen. Every shot he took was deliberate, brutal, and lethal.
Another mercenary rounded the corner of the gallery, raising a German-made assault rifle. Dante kicked a heavy bronze bust of Julius Caesar straight into the man's chest, knocking him off balance, before pressing his barrel under the operative’s jaw.
*Crack.*
The mercenary fell. Dante stripped the man's radio and earpiece, putting it to his ear.
A voice spoke over the encrypted channel: *“Alpha team, report. Target is in the upper north wing. Package acquired. Moving to extraction point on the helipad.”*
Dante’s blood ran cold.
*Package acquired.*
They were already upstairs.
Discarding his empty weapon and seizing the mercenary’s assault rifle, Dante sprinted up the marble staircase three steps at a time. The sound of wood splintering and a woman’s desperate screams echoed from the third floor.
He reached the master corridor just in time to see two mercenaries dragging a thrashing duffel bag toward the balcony. On the floor lay Mateo, clutching a bleeding shoulder, firing wildly with his left hand.
Maria was unconscious near the shattered doorway of the bedroom, her face bruised.
“Stop right there!” Dante bellowed, raising the rifle.
A tall figure stepped out from the shadows of the balcony archway. He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal cashmere coat, his blond hair unruffled despite the carnage. In his hand, he held a sleek gold pocket watch.
Julian Vance.
“Ah, Dante,” Julian smiled warmly, as if they were meeting at an opera house in Milan. “You really are as ferocious as your brother was. A pity your reflexes are just a fraction too slow.”
The mercenary holding the bag hoisted it over the stone railing. A black, unmarked helicopter hovered just fifty feet off the terrace, its searchlight blinding Dante’s vision.
“Put the child down, Vance,” Dante said, his voice deadly calm, though every muscle in his frame was coiled to spring. “You step onto that chopper, and there isn't a hole on this planet deep enough to hide you from me.”
May you like
“She isn't your child, Don Moretti,” Julian sneered, stepping backward toward the landing gear of the hovering aircraft. “She is a Vance. And she is going home.”
***
