Chapter 7 - Bloodlines and Broken Loyalties
The air in the basement turned instantly choking with cordite smoke and pulverized drywall.
Behind the massive iron bulk of the book press, Dante pushed me down onto the concrete floor, shielding my body with his own as bullets gouged deep craters into the limestone walls around us.
"Marco," Dante muttered under his breath, his jaw locked like a vice.
He didn't panic. His breathing slowed down to a steady, predatory rhythm. With smooth, practiced motions, he drew a suppressed pistol from beneath his arm, flicked off the safety, and signaled to his two surviving men crouched behind the concrete support pillars.
From the top of the stairs, footsteps crunched slowly down the splintered wooden treads.
A stocky older man stepped into view through the haze. He wore an expensive camel-hair coat, his graying hair slicked back, carrying a heavy nickel-plated revolver. Flanking him were four heavily armed enforcers with automatic rifles, their laser sights cutting crimson lines through the drifting dust.
Marco Marcone.
"You always were too sentimental, Dante," Marco sneered, kicking a piece of broken wood out of his path. "You spent nine years brooding over old Salvatore’s empire, and all it took was following a broke little waitress to lead me right to the vault."
My heart stopped. Dennis Cole. The supervisor from the hotel kitchen.
"You didn't track Clara," Dante called out from behind the press, his voice eerily calm despite the gunfire. "Dennis called you the second I fired him."
Marco laughed—a dry, grating rattle. "Dennis has been on my payroll for five years, boy. He keeps tabs on all the Hartwell staff. When you made a scene over leftover chicken and gave that girl Arthur Vane’s key, Dennis called my private line within thirty seconds."
Marco took three slow steps forward, gesturing with the barrel of his revolver toward the open vault.
"Slide the pigskin ledger across the floor, nephew," Marco said. "And maybe I’ll let you and the bookbinder's daughter die quick. Refuse, and I’ll send two of my boys up to 24th Street to fetch that little boy of hers. We can make an evening of it."
The mention of Eli ignited something wild and ferocious in my chest. All fear evaporated, replaced by a blinding, scorching rage.
Beside me, Dante’s dark eyes flared with lethal intent. He glanced down at me, caught my gaze, and saw the cold resolve in my eyes.
He didn't whisper a word. He simply raised three fingers, signaling a countdown.
Three.
I quietly grabbed an empty, five-gallon iron glue pot from the shelf beneath the book press.
Two.
Dante leaned his weight onto his back foot, aligning his sight with the corner of the iron press.
One.
I hurled the heavy iron pot with all the strength in my arms toward the far corner of the basement, where it crashed against a metal drying rack with a violent, ringing clamor.
The gunmen instinctively snapped their rifles toward the noise.
In that half-second of distraction, Dante leaned out and fired three rapid, suppressed shots.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The two lead gunmen dropped instantly, their rifles clattering against the concrete.
At the same moment, Dante’s two surviving operatives opened fire from behind the pillars, flanking the remaining enforcers in a brutal crossfire. The basement erupted into chaotic flashes of muzzle fire, shouting, and falling brass casings.
Marco screamed in rage, firing his revolver wildly into the dark as he scrambled backward toward the stairs. "Kill them! Kill them all!"
One of Marco’s men lunged toward our position with an assault shotgun. Dante tackled him mid-stride, slamming the larger man into the concrete wall. The shotgun discharged harmlessly into the ceiling, bringing down a shower of plaster. Dante drove his elbow into the attacker's throat, stripped the weapon from his grip, and neutralized him with a brutal, clinical strike to the temple.
Through the smoke, I saw Marco reach the bottom of the wooden stairs, clutching a bleeding arm, his eyes wide with frantic, panicked realization that his ambush had failed.
He turned to flee up the steps.
Dante stepped out from behind the pillar, his weapon raised, his eyes burning with nine years of unyielding fury.
"Marco," Dante called out.
The older man froze on the third step, turning slowly around with his revolver raised.
"You should have stayed in Florida, Uncle," Dante said softly.
Two muffled shots echoed through the chamber. Marco’s revolver slipped from his lifeless fingers, bouncing down the wooden stairs, followed by the heavy thud of his body collapsing against the floor.
Silence returned to the basement, broken only by the dripping water from the broken overhead pipes and the ragged, heavy breathing of the survivors.
Dante stood motionless for a long moment, looking down at the man who had ordered my father's execution. Then, he lowered his weapon, turned around, and walked back to where I was standing beside the vault.
May you like
He picked up the pigskin ledger, tucked it under his arm, and extended his hand to me once more.
"It's over, Clara," he said quietly. "Let's go home."
