Chapter 8 - The Masks Fall OffThe ballroom grew so silent that the distant rumble of thunder outside could be clearly heard through the stained-glass windows.
Dean Foster pushed himself up onto his knees, his face bruised and his tailored suit ruined. He looked up at the dais, his eyes wide with wild desperation as he spotted Victor Vance and Nikolai Petrov standing in the crowd.
"Victor! Nikolai!" Dean screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the Chicago and Russian bosses. "Tell him! Tell him about the alliance! Tell him you backed the coup!"
Every head in the ballroom snapped toward Victor and Nikolai. The color drained entirely from Victor’s face, while Nikolai’s hand instantly gripped the handle of his hidden pistol.
Massimo didn't flinch. He rested his hands casually on the podium, looking down at the panicked syndicate leaders with icy amusement.
"Ah, so you brought friends, Dean," Massimo said smoothly. "How touching. You know, for twelve years, I considered Dean my brother. I trusted him with my finances, my security, and my life. But greed makes men blind. He thought that by paralyzing me with a slow neurotoxin and staging an ambush, he could hand the Rinaldi empire over to out-of-town syndicates in exchange for a seat at their table."
Victor Vance stepped forward, holding his hands up defensively, trying to salvage his dignity. "Massimo, don't listen to a desperate traitor! Dean is just trying to drag everyone down with him! We had nothing to do with this!"
"Didn't you, Victor?" Massimo’s voice cut through the air like a butcher's knife.
Rocco stepped forward from the shadows of the dais, carrying a heavy leather briefcase. He opened it and dumped a massive stack of encrypted flash drives and printed bank transfer receipts onto the long mahogany table.
"These documents," Rocco announced loudly to the entire room, "contain the complete paper trail of offshore wire transfers originating from Chicago and Brighton Beach accounts, funding the Brooklyn Avenue hit squad and Dr. Hale's medical supplies. Every single transaction has your signatures, Victor. Your IP addresses, Nikolai."
Nikolai Petrov cursed in Russian, ripping his pistol out from his holster and aiming it squarely at Massimo’s chest. "Kill them all!" Nikolai roared to his enforcers in the crowd.
Before Nikolai's finger could squeeze the trigger, a dozen red laser dots flashed across his forehead and chest. Rocco’s elite snipers, positioned on the elevated balcony above, had every single conspirator locked in their crosshairs.
"Go ahead, Nikolai," Massimo said calmly, not even blinking at the barrel of the gun pointed at him. "Pull the trigger. Let's see if you make it out of Brooklyn alive, or if your syndicate gets carved up and distributed among your rivals before sunrise."
Nikolai froze. His finger trembled on the trigger. Around him, the other syndicate capos slowly backed away from the Russian boss, realizing they were standing in the middle of a heavily armed execution chamber.
Nikolai let out a low growl, slowly lowering his weapon and letting it clatter to the floor.
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Massimo stepped down from the dais, walking slowly toward Nikolai and Victor. The crowd parted instantly, terrified of even brushing against the mafia don't coat.
"The Rinaldi empire does not fall because of a traitor in a wheelchair," Massimo said, stopping just inches away from Nikolai. "And we certainly do not bow to outsiders."
