Chapter 7 - THE RECKONING AT THE LAKEThe firefight inside the consular compound lasted exactly four minutes and twelve seconds.
Dante’s men, trained like high-tier private military contractors, systematically swept the courtyard, neutralizing the fourteen mercenaries with surgical precision. They didn't shoot to injure; they cleared the compound with terrifying, brutal efficiency.
I couldn't stay in the SUV. Ignoring Marco’s security warnings, I pulled a small 9mm pistol from the door compartment and ran into the smoking, shattered gates of the villa.
The grand marble foyer was littered with broken glass, spent casings, and fallen guards. The smell of cordite and copper hung thick in the air.
I ran down the basement stairs, my sneakers slapping against the blood-stained concrete.
At the bottom of the stairs, the reinforced steel door was blown off its frame, hanging limply from its hydraulic hinges.
Inside the cellar, Marcus was sitting on the floor, his hands free, clutching a wet towel to a minor cut on his forehead. And standing over the body of Nikolai Volkov was Dante.
Volkov was on his knees, his expensive suit ruined, a heavy boot pressed against his chest, pinning him to the concrete floor. Dante’s rifle was slung over his shoulder; he held Volkov by the collar with his left hand, his face inches from the Russian officer’s bleeding face.
“Dante!” I gasped, running over to Marcus and scooping the fourteen-year-old boy into my arms. “Marcus! Are you okay? Did they hurt you?!”
“I’m okay, Eleanor,” Marcus stammered, shaking violently but trying to look brave. “I... I didn't tell them anything. I didn't tell them about Lily or Tommy.”
“I know, baby,” I whispered, kissing his forehead. “I know.”
Dante looked down at Volkov, his grip on the man’s collar tightening.
“You made a mistake, Volkov,” Dante murmured softly. “You thought diplomacies, titles, and borders protected you from men like me. But in Chicago, the only law that exists is the one I write.”
“Calvetti...” Volkov gasped, blood trickling from his lips. “You... you can't kill me... the ambassador...”
“The ambassador left for Washington two hours ago,” Dante interrupted coldly. “He sold you out to me for ten million dollars transferred to his account in Cyprus.”
Volkov’s eyes widened in sheer, paralyzing horror as he realized he had been completely abandoned.
Dante didn't fire a gun. He simply signaled two of his heaviest enforcers waiting at the door.
“Take him to Pier 14,” Dante commanded flatly. “Put him in a shipping crate and send him to Tokyo. Let his family try to find him there.”
The enforcers dragged the screaming former KGB officer out of the cellar, their heavy boots echoing up the stairs.
Dante slowly turned around. The dark, terrifying rage that had filled his eyes during the breach vanished instantly as he looked at Marcus and me. He walked over, knelt down beside us on the cold floor, and reached out his hand to gently check the cut on Marcus’s head.
“Good job holding the line, Marcus,” Dante said softly, his voice full of genuine pride. “Ruth would have been proud of you.”
Marcus looked up at Dante, tears finally spilling over his eyelashes, and nodded slowly. “Thank you... Mr. Calvetti.”
“Call me Dante, kid,” the mob boss whispered, smiling gently.
He stood up, reached out his hand, and pulled me to my feet. He looked deep into my eyes, wiping a smudge of black soot from my cheek with his thumb.
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“Is it over?” I whispered, resting my forehead against his tactical vest.
“It's over, Eleanor,” Dante murmured, wrapping his broad arms around both Marcus and me as his men secured the compound around us. “The city is clean. Nobody is coming for our children ever again.”
