Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD ON THE MARBLE
BOOM!
A blinding, white flash of light exploded in the center of the master bedroom, followed instantly by a thunderous shockwave that shattered the glass windows and sent a concussive roar through the walls.
High-pitched screams filled the air as the flashbang tore through the senses of the gunmen.
Before the smoke could even clear, Elena kicked the heavy oak closet door off its hinges with a crack that sounded like a rifle shot. She didn't hesitate. She stepped through the doorway with lethal grace, double-tapping the first disoriented gunman right through his tactical vest before he could bring his submachine gun to bear.
POP-POP!
The man collapsed like a sack of wet flour.
Vincent surged out behind her, his large frame moving with a terrifying, predatory speed. He didn't have a gun, but he had thirty years of street violence etched into his bones. He closed the distance on the second gunman, who was clutching his eyes and screaming in agony.
Vincent grabbed the man by the back of his tactical helmet and smashed his face down onto the corner of the marble vanity. The bone cracked instantly. Vincent didn't stop—he ripped the man’s sidearm from its holster, spun around, and leveled the weapon at the center of the room.
Marcus was on the floor, scrambling backward toward the doorway, his ears bleeding from the blast, his hand blindly searching for his dropped pistol.
Across the room, Isabella was pinned against the wall, her wine glass shattered at her feet, her eyes wide with absolute, horrifying realization as she stared into the eyes of her husband.
“Vincent...” she gasped, her voice choking on the thick grey smoke drifting through the room. “Vincent, wait—”
Vincent took three long, deliberate strides across the bloody rug. The barrel of the stolen 9mm never wavered from her forehead.
“Thirty years, Isabella,” Vincent said, his voice flat, stripped of all human emotion. “Thirty years I slept next to a serpent.”
“You don't understand!” she cried out, her composure completely shattered as she pressed herself harder against the wall. “They were going to strip everything! The Feds... they have the offshore accounts! Marcus made a deal to save the family name!”
“Marcus didn't make a deal to save the family,” Elena’s voice cut through the smoke like a scalpel. She was standing near the doorway, her weapon trained on Marcus, who was frozen on his knees, his hands locked behind his head. “Marcus made a deal with the Russian Syndicate in Brooklyn to sell out the Torino shipping lanes in exchange for immunity and a fifteen percent cut of the port revenue.”
Vincent flicked his gaze toward Elena. She was standing in the doorway, completely calm, holding a squad-level encrypted comms unit she had just ripped from the dead gunman’s vest.
“Who the hell are you, Elena?” Vincent demanded, his weapon still locked on his wife. “No maid knows the structure of the Brooklyn Syndicate.”
Elena reached up to her neck, pulled at the seam of her starch-collared uniform, and unzipped the front, revealing a dark Kevlar tactical vest underneath. She reached into her inner pocket and flipped open a heavy leather badge wallet.
The golden star flashed in the dim light of the burning bedroom.
“Special Agent Elena Vance, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Organized Crime Division,” she said, her voice dropping the soft, subservient cadence she had used for three years. “I’ve been under cover in your house for thirty-six months to bring down your board of directors, Mr. Torino. But my bosses didn't order this hit. Your family did.”
The room fell dead silent, save for the crackle of the flames catching on the heavy velvet drapes near the shattered window.
Outside, in the long winding driveway of the estate, the dull roar of multiple heavy SUVs began to echo through the night air. Headlights cut through the dark tree line outside, sweeping across the master bedroom walls.
Backups had arrived. But they weren't the police.
“They’re here,” Marcus rasped from the floor, a bloody smile creeping onto his face despite the gun pointed at his head. “You’re too late, Uncle. The syndicate sent three teams. The whole perimeter is locked down. You aren't leaving this house alive.”
Vincent looked from his sniveling nephew to his terrified wife, then finally back to the FBI agent who had been dusting his bookshelves for three years.
“Agent Vance,” Vincent said softly. “It seems we both have a common problem. Your agency wants me in a courtroom. These people want us both in the ground.”
Elena looked at the window, then back at Vincent. She slowly lowered her weapon, keeping it aimed squarely at Marcus’s chest.
“My extraction team is ten minutes away,” Elena said, her jaw tight. “If we stay here, we’re dead in two. Can you drive a armored sedan with a blown-out rear axle?”
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Vincent grinned—a terrifying, bloodthirsty smile that reminded everyone in that room why he had ruled the city for three decades.
“Sweetheart,” Vincent said, grabbing Marcus by the collar and hoisting him off the floor like a ragdoll. “I built this city from the driver’s seat of a stolen getaway car.”
