Chapter 3 - Blood on the MarbleThe heavy oak doors of the grand hall blew inward with a splintering crash.
Smoke billowed across the polished floorboards, smelling of sulfur and high-explosive breaching charges. Through the haze emerged a dozen men in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by gas masks and NVGs. They didn't wear police insignia, and they didn't look like common street thugs. They moved with the cold, synchronized efficiency of a black-ops wet-work squad.
At their front walked a man with a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collarbone—Viktor Vance, a disgraced ex-CIA operative turned freelance syndicate cleaner.
"Drop the weapons!" Viktor roared, raising an HK416 assault rifle. "Nobody moves, nobody bleeds unless you want your brains painted across these pretty chandeliers!"
Panic erupted among the elite guests. Women screamed, designer gowns ripping as they scrambled behind marble pillars. Don Emilio ducked behind a velvet sofa, trembling like a wet cat.
Only Damiano Verrone didn't move. He stood in the center of the room, his suppressed pistol hanging casually at his side, his face carved from granite.
"Viktor," Damiano said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "You’ve put on weight. Or is that just cheap body armor?"
Viktor sneered behind his mask, stepping forward. "Save the tough-guy act, Verrone. The board is cleared. Your offshore accounts are being drained as we speak. The Federal indictment drops at midnight. All you had to do was hand over the port authority keys to Silvio and retire quietly. But you had to play hero for a maid's brat."
"You talk too much," Damiano said.
Before Viktor could pull the trigger, a deafening explosion rocked the western wing of the estate. The floor shook beneath their feet. Plaster rained down from the ceiling.
Through the smoke of the blown service corridor, Rafael Conti reappeared. One hand held a smoking tactical shotgun; the other dragged an unconscious mercenary by the tactical vest. Maya was nowhere in sight—she was safely locked in the reinforced panic room beneath the wine cellar.
"Boss," Rafael called out, his voice sharp and adrenaline-fueled. "They blew the eastern firewall. They’re trying to wipe the main server."
Viktor cursed, turning his rifle toward Rafael. "Kill them all! Leave Verrone for last!"
Damiano didn't hesitate. With blinding speed, his pistol rose. Puff-puff. Two suppressed shots echoed in the enclosed hall.
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The two lead mercenaries dropped instantly, neat red holes centered in their visors.
The room devolved into a full-scale firefight. Glass shattered, crystal chandeliers rained down like frozen tears, and the pristine white marble floor was stained with the dark, heavy iron of blood.
