Chapter 8 - The Confrontation"Shut the brat up," a gruff, unfamiliar voice echoed from the second-floor office above. "Vitali is already inside the perimeter. Once he walks through those front doors, we finish them both and take over the North American ports."
Elena looked at Marco. He didn't hesitate.
Moving with lethal, silent grace despite his bleeding stitches, Marco crept up the steel staircase, his pistol raised. Elena was right behind him, her weapon trained on the dim shadows of the upper landing.
They reached the landing outside the glass-paneled office door. Inside, through the wired glass, Elena could see a terrifying sight: little Dante tied securely to a metal folding chair, a strip of duct tape across his mouth, his dark hair messy, his sharp cheekbones flushed with fear. Standing over him with a silver-plated revolver pressed against the boy's temple was a heavy-set man with a scarred lip—Gallo.
"Drop your weapons!" Gallo screamed, yanking Dante up by the collar of his shirt as the office door was kicked violently off its hinges.
Marco stepped into the doorway, his pistol aimed dead-center at Gallo’s forehead. His voice, when it came out, was not human. It was the voice of death itself.
"Let the boy go, Gallo. This is between you and me."
Gallo laughed, pressing the barrel harder against Dante's temple. The nine-year-old let out a muffled cry through the tape, his wide, terrified dark eyes locking instantly onto Marco.
"Look at him, Marco!" Gallo sneered, spittle flying from his lips. "Ten years you spent looking over your shoulder, and all the while your little bastard was sitting in Chicago, waiting to be slaughtered! Say goodbye to your bloodline!"
Gallo’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Time seemed to fracture into slow motion. Elena screamed, raising her gun. But Marco was faster.
With a roar that tore through his own healing stitches, Marco didn't aim at Gallo's head—he fired straight through the glass panel of the office door, striking Gallo's gun hand with pinpoint precision.
Bang!
The revolver flew from Gallo's grip, clattering across the concrete floor. Before Gallo could recover, Marco vaulted across the room like a striking panther, slamming his fist into Gallo's jaw with bone-crushing force. Gallo dropped like a sack of wet cement, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The room went dead silent, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of the men.
Marco dropped his pistol, spinning around frantically. He fell to his knees in front of the chair, his hands trembling violently as he ripped the duct tape off Dante's mouth and frantically began untying the ropes.
"Dante! Dante, look at me," Marco choked out, tears openly streaming down his face as he pulled his son into his chest.
Dante, gasping for air, clutched at Marco's jacket. The nine-year-old boy looked up into the face of the bleeding stranger who had just saved his life. He stared at the dark hair, the sharp cheekbones, the fierce, protective eyes.
"Are you... are you my dad?" Dante whispered, the question hanging in the air like magic.
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Marco buried his face in his son's dark hair, his broad shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "Yes, son. I'm your dad. And I'm never letting you go again."
Elena walked slowly across the room, falling to her knees beside them. She wrapped her arms around both of them, pressing her face against Marco's shoulder as the nightmare of the last ten years finally dissolved into the rain outside.
