Chapter 8 - The Plaza Massacre
“Get down!” Victor bellowed, shoving Serena behind a massive marble pillar as a volley of automatic gunfire shattered the chandeliers overhead, raining glass down like a deadly winter storm.
Dante Marcone marched down the center aisle of the ballroom, his men fanning out to cover every exit. The rival boss wore a sick, triumphant grin on his face.
“You thought you could touch my smuggling routes in Brooklyn and get away with it, Victor?” Dante sneered, aiming his weapon directly at the pillar where Victor and Serena were sheltered. “I’m taking everything tonight! Your empire, your money, and your precious little family!”
Victor’s hand slid inside his tuxedo jacket, wrapping around the grip of his concealed firearm. His eyes were dead, cold, and calculating. He stepped out from behind the pillar into the line of fire.
“You want me, Dante?” Victor’s voice echoed coldly through the devastated ballroom. “Come and get me.”
Dante laughed maliciously, raising his rifle to fire.
At that exact moment, Serena didn’t wait. She slipped around the opposite side of the marble pillar, scanning the floor frantically. Her eyes locked onto a heavy, five-tier silver champagne tower resting on a rolling cart near the bar.
Without hesitation, Serena grabbed the heavy silver cart and rammed it forward with all her might.
CRASH!
The rolling cart slammed directly into the back of Dante’s knees with bone-shattering force. The rival boss buckled instantly, his rifle discharging harmlessly into the ceiling as he crashed face-first onto the shattered crystal glassware.
Before Dante’s guards could react, Victor moved with terrifying, lightning-fast precision. Two shots rang out—bang, bang—disarming the nearest guards with pinpoint accuracy. Within seconds, Victor’s own security detail, having breached the service elevators, swarmed the ballroom, disarming Marcone’s men and pinning them to the floor.
Dante groaned, spitting blood onto the ruined carpet as Victor stood over him, pressing the cold barrel of his gun firmly against the center of Dante’s forehead.
“It’s over, Dante,” Victor whispered, his voice dripping with lethal finality.
Sirens wailed in the distance outside the Plaza Hotel, drawing closer by the second. Within minutes, federal agents and local police flooded the room, hauling Marcone and his men away in heavy iron handcuffs.
The ballroom was an absolute disaster zone—shattered glass, spilled champagne, and overturned tables everywhere.
Victor slowly lowered his weapon, exhaled a long, shaky breath, and turned around to look for Serena.
She was standing near the bar, her emerald-green dress slightly torn at the hem, her hair loose around her shoulders, breathing heavily.
Victor walked over, closed the distance between them in two swift strides, and without a single word of hesitation, pulled her violently into his arms, crushing her against his chest in a fierce, desperate embrace.
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“You are out of your mind,” Victor murmured into her hair, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. “You could have been killed.”
“And you could use a better security detail,” Serena retorted softly, melting slightly against his warm, solid frame.
