Chapter 8 - The Underworld's War
Before Commissioner Sterling could lower his hand, the darkness behind his mercenaries erupted into absolute chaos.
A deafening sniper shot echoed down the cavernous subway tunnel, the bullet tearing through the primary light fixture suspended from the ceiling. Darkness crashed over us like a tidal wave, illuminated only by the frantic strobes of muzzle flashes.
""Moretti family loyalists!"" Marco screamed from behind us, leveling his submachine gun despite his bleeding chest wound.
Dozens of armed men in charcoal suits emerged from the service alcoves along the tunnel walls. Vincent had not simply fled the mansion; he had steered our pursuers directly into a pre-planned kill zone. The mercenaries turned to return fire, but they were hopelessly outmaneuvered, caught in a deadly crossfire between Vincent’s elite tactical squad and the platform guards.
Vincent seized the opening. In a flash of pure, explosive violence, he lunged forward into the shadows. I heard the sickening crack of breaking bones and the choked gasp of a falling mercenary.
Commissioner Sterling panicked. Dropping his cigar, the corrupt official turned and sprinted down the tracks toward the service exit leading to Queens.
""Rowan! Stay behind Marco!"" Vincent shouted over the roar of gunfire, taking off in pursuit of the commissioner.
I didn't listen. Adrenaline burned away the lingering pain in my cracked ribs. This man had conspired with Dominic to steal my mother's legacy, had orchestrated David’s treason, and had treated my life like a worthless pawn in a dirty financial game.
I vaulted over the rusted rail and ran into the darkness after them.
The tunnel sloped upward, ending in a massive abandoned pump room illuminated by yellow emergency lamps. Sterling was frantically punching an access code into the electronic keypad of a heavy blast door. Vincent rounded the corner, gun drawn, but Sterling whipped around, drawing a concealed snub-nosed revolver and firing wildly.
The bullet grazed Vincent’s left shoulder, spinning him off balance. Vincent hit the concrete floor hard, his weapon sliding out of reach toward the edge of an open industrial drainage shaft.
Sterling grinned maniacally, raising his gun with both hands to put a bullet between Vincent’s eyes. ""Goodbye, Don Moretti—""
BANG.
Sterling froze. His revolver slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the concrete. He looked down in utter bewilderment at the neat bullet hole piercing the center of his chest.
Behind him, I lowered my smoking Glock, my hands completely steady, my breath coming in slow, even waves.
Sterling crumpled to the floor, dead before his body settled into the dust.
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Vincent pushed himself up from the floor, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He looked at the fallen commissioner, then up at me, standing in the yellow lamplight with gun smoke drifting from my barrel. A slow, breathtaking smile broke across his rugged face—a smile born of pure admiration.
""Francesca's blood runs pure in your veins,"" Vincent whispered, offering me his uninjured hand. ""You're a true Moretti, Rowan.""
