Chapter 8 - The Price of Loyalty
In the sudden, suffocating darkness of the hangar, Matteo moved like a phantom. Deprived of their high ground and blinded by the sudden loss of light, Russo’s hired guns fired wildly into the shadows, their muzzle flashes illuminating frantic, terrified faces.
Matteo didn't miss. Three rapid, suppressed shots echoed through the cavernous space, dropping the two nearest gunmen before they could reload. Dario and the remaining Bellini enforcers surged forward through the smoke and raining debris, their training turning the botched ambush into a systematic sweep.
Vivien tumbled out of the driver's side of the damaged SUV, her heart in her throat as she scrambled toward the cover of a stack of aluminum pallets. The smell of burning rubber, ozone, and cordite hung thick in the air.
Through the haze, she saw Marcus Vance scuttling across the wet tarmac like a crab, dragging the heavy metal briefcase toward the running Gulfstream.
"Marcus!" she yelled, her voice cutting through the damp roar of the jet engines.
The accountant froze, turning with wild, terrified eyes. In the faint amber glow of the taxiway lights, his face was pale, his tailored suit spattered with grease and rainwater. "Vivien? Get back! You don't understand what this is! Russo was going to kill me anyway—I had to give him something!"
"You sold us out!" she shouted, stepping forward despite the sharp, tearing throb in her stitched shoulder. "You knew they were going to shoot him at the gala! You knew I was standing right next to him!"
"It was just business!" Marcus shrieked, fumbling a small snub-nosed revolver out of his pocket, his shaking hand aiming directly at Vivien’s chest. "I’m getting on that plane! Don't make me do this, Vivien!"
Before Marcus could pull the trigger, a dark shadow materialized from the smoke behind him.
A heavy, leather-gloved hand clamped onto Marcus’s wrist, twisting the bone with a sickening snap. The revolver clattered harmlessly onto the wet concrete. Marcus let out a high-pitched scream of agony as Matteo shoved him violently to the ground, pinning the traitor's neck beneath the heavy heel of his Italian leather dress shoe.
Matteo’s face was an emotionless mask of cold, terrifying vengeance. He raised his gun, pointing it directly between Marcus’s eyes. "Give me one reason why your body shouldn't be feeding the crabs in Narragansett Bay by dawn," Matteo whispered.
"Wait! Wait, Matteo, please!" Marcus choked out, clutching his broken wrist against the pavement. "Russo... Russo didn't just want the docks! He made a deal with the New York families! If you survive tonight, they’re bringing forty men down from Boston to burn your estate to the ground! The whole syndicate is coming for you!"
A slow, terrifying smile curved Matteo's lips. "Good," he murmured softly. "Then I won't have to waste time traveling to find them."
Before Matteo could pull the trigger, a harsh shout echoed from the shadow of the gantry wreckage.
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"Drop it, Bellini! Or the pretty little secretary takes the final bow!"
Vivien gasped as a cold, heavy arm clamped around her throat from behind, jerking her violently off her feet. Dominic Russo, blood streaming down the side of his bruised temple from the walkway collapse, held a heavy-caliber pistol pressed firmly against the soft skin beneath her jaw.
