Chapter 2 - Blood and Lead
I kicked the dining table onto its side with a single heave, creating a temporary barricade of thick mahogany.
"Elena, the floor grate. Take them into the sub-basement. Don't stop until you reach the vault," I commanded, keeping my eyes fixed on the entrance.
"Alejandro—"
"Go!" I roared.
Elena lifted the brass floor grate leading to the utility maintenance shafts. One by one, she lowered the boys into the dark opening. Leo, Lucas, Nico—none of them made a sound. They had been trained for this. That realization chilled my marrow deeper than the gunfire outside. Four-year-old boys shouldn't know how to hide in silence.
Mateo was the last. Before he dropped into the shaft, he reached out his tiny, sticky hand and touched my cufflink—the silver Moretti crest of an unchained wolf.
"Don't die, picture man," he whispered.
"Get down, boy."
He vanished into the dark, and Elena slammed the iron grate shut just as two black-clad tactical operators breached the shattered dining room archway.
They were fast, but I had spent twenty years wading through the Chicago underworld's bloodiest turf wars.
My Kimber barked twice.
The first operator caught two .45 rounds directly through his throat, collapsing backward with a strangled gasp. The second raised an MPX, but I closed the distance before he could squeeze the trigger. I grabbed the barrel, redirecting the spray into the ceiling plaster, drove my combat knife through his collarbone down into his lung, and stripped his sidearm in a fluid, vicious motion.
He fell choking to the floor.
I ripped the balaclava from his face. A pale skinhead with a serpent tattoo curling up the right side of his neck.
The Valenti Syndicate.
Don Carmine Valenti had been my father’s oldest rival, a bitter old serpent who had supposedly retreated to Florida three years ago after I took over the territory. But this strike team wasn't Florida retirement muscle; they were ex-Spetsnaz contractors.
"Who sent you?" I pressed the smoking barrel of my gun against his temple.
The dying mercenary coughed up dark crimson foam. He smiled a sickening, broken smile. "Doesn't matter... Moretti. The old man... knows about the heirs. The bloodline dies... today."
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I pulled the trigger without another word.
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