Chapter 6 - THE PENTHOUSE BLOODBATHThe luxury penthouse erupted into sudden, deafening chaos.
Glass shattered as heavy caliber rounds punched through the floor-to-ceiling windows, sending crystal shards raining down onto the Chicago streets forty floors below. Thomas dove behind a massive marble coffee table, returning fire with ruthless efficiency. Two of Vincenzo’s guards staggered backward, crashing through the glass partition of the master bathroom.
Amelia dropped flat to the floor inside the elevator cabin, her hands clamped over her ears as the concussive shockwaves of gunfire rattled her teeth.
Dominic moved like a phantom. Sidestepping behind a structural steel pillar, he raised his Beretta and fired twice. The third guard protecting Vincenzo clutched his chest and dropped his weapon, collapsing onto the white shag rug.
Only one guard remained standing beside Vincenzo, his submachine gun smoking as he swept the room for targets.
"Enough!" Vincenzo roared, shoving his remaining guard aside. The older man reached into his jacket, pulled out a heavy chrome-plated revolver, and aimed it directly at Dominic’s chest.
"End of the line, nephew," Vincenzo snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger. "You should have stayed in Sicily."
Dominic didn't raise his gun. Instead, he simply smiled.
"You forgot to check your own perimeter, Uncle," Dominic said coolly.
Before Vincenzo could fire, a sharp metallic click echoed from the doorway behind him.
Marco, the hulking chief enforcer who had been monitoring the cameras earlier, stumbled backward into the penthouse—with the barrel of Thomas’s pistol pressed firmly against the base of his skull. Thomas had flanked them by taking the private service staircase while the shootout distracted the room.
"Drop the piece, old man," Thomas growled, shoving Marco forward onto his knees. "Unless you want your brain painted across your expensive rug."
Vincenzo’s hand trembled. He looked from Thomas to Dominic, realizing with sudden, crushing certainty that he had been outmaneuvered at every single turn.
With a hollow metallic clatter, Vincenzo’s revolver slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.
Dominic walked forward slowly, stepping over the broken glass and debris, until he stood face-to-face with the uncle who had betrayed him.
"Thirty years, Vincenzo," Dominic said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of a generation of family blood and betrayal. "Thirty years I let you sit at my right hand. And you sold me out for a slice of the Northside."
Vincenzo spat blood onto the polished floor, his eyes burning with undiminished hatred. "You're weak, Dominic. You care about loyalty, about honor. In our world, there is only power."
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"No, Uncle," Dominic replied, raising his pistol and pressing the cold steel barrel directly against Vincenzo’s forehead. "In our world, there are consequences."
Bang.
