Chapter 5 - Fire in the North End
The blast shattered the front bay windows of the social club before Silvio’s gunmen could squeeze their triggers. Stun grenades flashed in blinding succession, filling the narrow club with deafening thunder and thick, acrid smoke.
Roman reacted on instinct. He lunged across the small table, driving his shoulder directly into his uncle’s chest, sending the old man and the heavy chair crashing to the floor as bullets tore through the plaster walls above their heads. Elias drew twin semi-automatics, laying down covering fire toward the kitchen hallway where two of Silvio’s mercenaries were attempting to flank them.
Through the shattered front entrance, a figure burst through the smoke. He moved with terrifying tactical precision, firing single, controlled shots that dropped Silvio’s hired guns before they could acquire their targets. The man wore a heavy combat jacket, his face scarred and hardened by six years of living as a ghost.
In his right hand, despite the missing pinky and ring fingers, he wielded a customized tactical firearm with lethal accuracy. Nathan Valente had arrived.
“Get down!” Nathan bellowed, his voice cutting through the roar of gunfire.
A gunman stepped out from behind the bar, aiming directly at Roman’s exposed flank. Nathan threw himself forward, absorbing a grazing round across his shoulder as he fired two shots into the gunman’s center mass. The shooter collapsed behind the liquor bottles, sending a cascade of amber whiskey raining down over the shattered mirrors.
Within forty-five seconds, the room fell dead silent, save for the groan of wounded men and the hiss of a ruptured radiator leaking steam into the freezing air.
Roman scrambled to his feet, his tailored wedding suit covered in drywall dust and glass shards. He stood over his uncle Silvio, who was clutching a broken collarbone, groaning in agony on the Persian rug.
Nathan lowered his weapon, breathing heavily. He turned toward Roman, blood dripping slowly from the tear in his jacket sleeve. The two men, born into rival dynasties that had buried dozens of their own in a meaningless war, stared at each other through the clearing haze of cordite.
“You’re late,” Roman said, his breathing ragged.
“Traffic on the bridge was terrible,” Nathan countered with a dry, gravelly chuckle. “Besides, Clara called me. She told me the little girl blew our entire six-year operation in front of forty wedding guests.”
“Ellie saved your life, Nathan,” Roman said, extending his hand. “And maybe mine, too.”
Nathan looked at Roman’s outstretched hand for a long, heavy moment before clasping it firmly. “Serena thought you’d execute her on the spot. She took a massive gamble bringing that key into your house tonight.”
“Serena is currently locked in my wine cellar drinking my best vintage,” Roman replied, shaking his head with a faint, wry smile. “She’s dramatic, but she isn't stupid. But Vault 17 isn't secure anymore. If Silvio’s men are active, his partners are already moving on the docks.”
Silvio spat blood onto the floor, laughing through his pain. “You’re too late, boy. The federal task force... they’re already raiding Warehouse 17 under a sealed warrant. By morning, both the Belluccis and the Valentes will be indicted on RICO charges, and the private security firm I hired will have transferred every offshore account to the Cayman Islands. You’ve lost, Roman.”
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Roman looked down at his uncle with profound pity. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket and tossed it onto Silvio’s lap.
“Check the news, Uncle. I didn't spend twelve years ruling Boston without knowing how to play the long game.”
