Chapter 5 - THE AIRFIELD EXECUTION
The storm had upgraded to a full-blown gale by the time Rocco’s private helicopter touched down near the tarmac of the private airfield in Bedford. The blades chopped violently through the dark sky, casting long, frantic shadows across the tarmac.
Rocco stepped out into the rain, flanked by Dante and a dozen heavily armed tactical operators. In the distance, a mid-sized private jet was idling, its engines whining as it prepared for takeoff.
Standing near the boarding stairs was Matteo Duca, dressed in a sleek cashmere coat, surrounded by six heavily armed Russian mercenaries.
"Matteo!" Rocco’s voice boomed over the roar of the jet engines, cutting through the wind like a thunderclap.
Matteo stiffened. He turned around, a look of profound shock crossing his face, which quickly melted into a bitter, arrogant sneer. "Rocco! Look at you, walking right into the slaughterhouse. I must admit, I didn't think you’d make it out of the estate alive. The Volkovs promised me they’d handle you quietly."
"You sold out your own blood," Rocco said, walking steadily across the wet asphalt, his rifle held at a relaxed but lethal low-ready position. "You used my wife. You used my children."
"Your children?" Matteo laughed, a high, unhinged sound. "Those three bastards are my ticket to the global throne, brother! With them in Moscow, the Volkovs and I control the Duca line forever. You were always too soft, Rocco. You spent five years mourning a ghost instead of expanding our borders. Father would have hated what you became!"
"Father is dead because I poisoned his tea, Matteo," Rocco said calmly, stopping twenty paces away.
Matteo choked on his next breath, his eyes widening in pure horror. "What... what did you say?"
"He was going to kill Serena because she hadn't given him an heir yet," Rocco stated, his voice completely level, completely cold. "So I ended him. I took the crown because I was the only one strong enough to bear the curse. And now, I’m going to end you."
"Kill him!" Matteo shrieked, backing up the stairs of the jet.
The tarmac erupted into an inferno of gunfire. The Russian mercenaries opened fire, but Rocco’s men were faster, more disciplined. Dante dropped two men with precise headshots before they could even raise their weapons. Rocco moved like a wraith through the smoke, his rifle barking rhythmically, each round finding its mark in a spray of dark crimson against the white fuselage of the jet.
Matteo scrambled inside the plane, trying to pull the heavy cabin door shut.
But Rocco was already there. He jammed the barrel of his rifle into the closing gap, forcing the door open with a brutal heave of his shoulder. He stepped into the luxury cabin, his face splattered with rain and the blood of his enemies.
Matteo fell backward onto the leather floor, scrambling away like a crab, his expensive coat ruined. He pulled a gold-plated revolver from his waistband, his hand shaking violently. "Stay back! I'll blow this plane sky-high, Rocco! I swear to God—"
Rocco didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and fired one shot into Matteo’s right knee.
Matteo screamed, a agonizing, high-pitched wail, dropping the gun as he clutched his shattered joint. He rolled onto his side, sobbing in the luxury cabin.
Rocco stood over his brother, the barrel of his rifle smoking in the conditioned air of the plane. He looked down at him not with anger, but with absolute disgust.
"You aren't a Duca," Rocco said softly. "You're just a coward who wanted a crown he didn't have the stomach to bleed for."
Rocco turned around, walking back toward the open door of the jet where Dante stood waiting.
"Boss?" Dante asked, looking at the weeping man on the floor. "What do we do with him?"
"Leave him," Rocco said, stepping back into the rain. "Call the Volkov patriarch. Tell him Matteo failed, and that I am sending his head back to Moscow via commercial mail. If a single Russian asset steps foot in New England again, I will personally burn their harbor to the ground."
"Understood, Boss. And the plane?"
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Rocco pulled a small remote detonator from his pocket—a precaution he had Dante install on every asset his brother had ever touched. He pressed the red button without looking back.
A split second later, the private jet exploded into a magnificent, blinding fireball, illuminating the dark Massachusetts sky in a brilliant shade of orange.
