Chapter 9 - The Rightful Heir
""Roman!"" Emma's scream tore through the hall, forgetting every shred of anger, betrayal, and fear.
She dropped to her knees beside him. Roman was gasping for air, his hand pressed against the dark red wound blooming across his stomach. His eyes were fluttering, losing focus against the harsh glare of the chandeliers.
Mateo advanced, laughing maniacally, his gun empty, pulling a serrated hunting knife from his boot. ""Two birds with one stone. The Vale boy dies, and the last Callahan bloodline is erased forever. Chicago belongs to the Castigliones!""
Marcus was pinned behind a pillar thirty yards away, struggling to reload his jammed rifle. Nobody was left to stop him.
Emma looked down at Roman’s side. His custom, unbranded semi-automatic pistol lay on the marble floor between them.
The memory flashed in Emma’s mind: her mother, exhausted after a sixteen-hour shift, sitting on the edge of their threadbare couch in Logan Square, whispering, ""You are stronger than this city, Emma. Never let them see you bend.""
Emma reached down. Her fingers wrapped around the checkered grip of Roman’s firearm. The metal was heavy, cold, and surprisingly balanced in her hand.
She stood up.
Mateo stopped dead in his tracks, blinking in astonishment as the twenty-four-year-old server raised the weapon with both hands, aiming directly at his chest.
""Put the gun down, little girl,"" Mateo sneered, taking a slow step forward. ""You've never fired a weapon in your life. You don't have the stomach for this world.""
""You talked about my mother,"" Emma said, her voice dropping into a chilling, absolute monotone. The fear had evaporated completely, replaced by the ancient, predatory bloodline that had conquered Chicago a generation before. ""You called her a scrub woman.""
Mateo lunged forward, knife raised.
Emma pulled the trigger.
The recoil bucked against her wrists, but she didn't flinch. She fired once, twice, three times. Mateo Castiglione crumpled to the floor, sliding across the marble tiles until his lifeless body stopped against the shattered remains of the banquet table.
The hall fell into complete, dead silence.
The remaining Castiglione enforcers dropped their weapons to the floor, raising their hands in total surrender. Marcus stepped out from behind the pillar, his eyes wide with reverence as he looked at Emma standing among the ruins, the smoking gun still steady in her grip.
Emma dropped the weapon and fell back to Roman’s side, pressing both hands against his bleeding wound. ""Stay with me! Roman, look at me! You don't get to die on Thanksgiving weekend! Stay awake!""
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Roman forced his eyes open, a faint, bloody smile touching the corner of his lips. ""You... you shot him...""
""He insulted my mother's cooking,"" Emma sobbed, tears splashing onto his pale cheek. ""Now keep your eyes on me, Roman. That’s an order.""
