Chapter 3 - THE WENCH AND THE WOLF
Downstairs in the formal living room, the atmosphere was thick with the heady scent of expensive bourbon, woodsmoke, and victory.
Leo Marino swirled the remaining ice in his glass, his eyes fixed on the marble fireplace. The flames reflected in his irises, giving him a demonic, manic glow. For twenty years, he had played the loyal second-in-command, the shadow behind the throne, the faithful hound who fetched the slippers and bit the throats out of Dante’s enemies.
Every single day of those twenty years had been a slow-burning humiliation.
"You look entirely too comfortable, Leo," Hector Valez said, leaning against the grand piano with a smirk. "Almost like you think you've already won."
"I have won, Hector," Leo said, his voice dripping with venomous confidence. "Dante built this house on sand, even if he thinks it’s reinforced concrete. He always believed loyalty was something you could buy with high salaries and expensive watches. He never understood that power doesn't belong to the man who holds it—it belongs to the man who is willing to take it when the king gets soft."
Camila walked back over to the sofa, picking up her glass. Her fingers were steady now, the initial thrill of the betrayal settling into a cold, calculated ambition.
"Don't discount Dante’s paranoia," Camila warned, though there was no fear in her voice—only disdain. "The man has safe rooms you don't even know about, Leo. If he comes back and finds out—”
"He isn't coming back until tomorrow morning," Leo snapped, cutting her off sharply. "My guys at the Miami airport confirmed his private jet is still sitting on the tarmac, socked in by the tail end of this hurricane. The flight crew checked into a hotel down the street three hours ago. Dante is stuck in Florida eating bad room service while we carve up his empire."
Valez narrowed his eyes, pushing off the piano. "And what about the maid?"
Leo waved a hand dismissively. "Beatrice? She’s an old cleaning lady. She’s probably cowering in the laundry room praying to a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary. Once we finish signing these papers, we’ll secure the estate, let one of your boys handle her quietly, and stage a break-in by a rival crew. Clean, neat, untraceable."
Camila took a sip of her whiskey, her eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "It’s poetic, really. After three years of listening to him talk about his legacy, his rules, his 'family'... I get to walk away with half his fortune and a new life in Zurich."
"More than half, my dear," Leo corrected, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close against his chest. "Once the shipping lines are under cartel control, we’ll be pulling in seven figures a week. You won't just have a new life in Zurich—you'll be a queen."
Suddenly, the ambient hum of the mansion’s central heating system cut out.
The lights in the living room didn't flicker—they didn't go dark completely. Instead, they shifted from a warm, golden chandelier glow to a stark, blinding white emergency backup grid.
The heavy oak double doors leading into the hallway clicked.
Not the sound of a door opening.
The sound of a deadbolt sliding home from the outside.
Leo stiffened instantly. His hands dropped away from Camila’s waist. The relaxed, triumphant posture vanished, replaced in a microsecond by the razor-sharp reflexes of a veteran street fighter.
"Valez," Leo hissed, his voice dropping an octave. "Check the door."
Valez didn't wait. He drew the suppressed pistol from his tactical belt and motioned to the fifth guard standing in the hallway alcove. The guard stepped forward, reaching out to grab the brass doorknob of the double doors.
He twisted it.
It didn't turn.
"Boss," the guard called out, his voice tight with sudden panic. "It’s jammed. Or... it’s locked from the outside."
"Kick it open!" Valez barked, raising his weapon.
Before the guard could plant his boot against the wood, the heavy oak doors exploded inward in a shower of splinters and iron shrapnel. A concussive flash-bang grenade rolled across the Persian rug, spinning to a halt right in the center of the coffee table.
"GET DOWN!" Valez roared, diving behind the grand piano.
Leo threw himself over the back of the sofa, dragging Camila down with him as she shrieked in absolute terror.
BANG!
The flash-bang detonated with a blinding, magnesium-white glare and a deafening shockwave that rattled the crystal decanters and shattered every window facing the courtyard.
In the blinding white haze of smoke and ringing ears, a silhouette stepped through the splintered doorway.
Dante Russo walked into his living room.
His coat was soaked with rain, his shoulders broad and steady. In his right hand, he held the Sig Sauer P226, smoke curling lazily from the barrel. In his left hand, he carried something that made Leo Marino’s blood turn to ice water.
May you like
It was the severed radio headset of Valez’s lead guard, still blinking with a faint, dying red light.
"You said I was in Miami, Leo," Dante’s voice cut through the ringing silence of the room, calm, measured, and infinitely lethal. "You really should check the weather radar before you plan a coup in my house."
