Chapter 6 - THE FORTY-FLOOR SIEGE
The air in the study turned ice-cold.
Dante didn't flinch. His hand hovered inches from his hidden holster, calculating the distance, the angle, the split-second window required to disarm a trained killer before a bullet found its mark.
"Marcus," Dante said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. "Eight years. I made you a rich man. I trusted you with my life."
"Money is good, Dante, but survival is better," Marcus laughed softly, keeping his eyes locked on Dante while shifting the gun slightly to cover Nonna and Brielle. "The Morettis are taking over the entire North and South districts. When the dust settles, I’m the new king of Chicago logistics. You and your little family are yesterday's news."
Brielle’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her eyes darted frantically around the room. There was no iron chair leg here. No weapon. Just heavy books, expensive crystal lamps, and a traitor holding all the cards.
Marcus took a step forward, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Let's start with the waitress. She’s been sticking her nose where it doesn't belong ever since she wandered out of that diner."
As Marcus shifted his aim toward Brielle, Nonna suddenly let out a sharp cry and swung her heavy wooden cane with astonishing force, catching Marcus square in the shins.
"Ah, you old witch!" Marcus roared, stumbling forward and firing wildly.
The bullet shattered a crystal decanter on the desk, spraying glass shards across the room.
In that fraction of a second, Dante moved like a striking viper. He closed the distance between them, slamming his forearm against Marcus’s wrist and forcing the gun upward. A second shot blasted through the plaster ceiling.
Marcus, fueled by desperation, slammed the butt of the gun against Dante’s temple. Dante grunted, staggering back against the mahogany desk, blood pooling at his hairline. Marcus spun around, leveling the gun right at Dante’s head.
"End of the line, boss," Marcus hissed, his finger pressing down on the trigger.
CRASH!
Before the hammer could fall, a heavy brass table lamp flew through the air like a guided missile, smashing directly into the side of Marcus’s head.
Marcus collapsed sideways, stunned, blood pouring from a jagged gash above his ear.
Brielle stood at the edge of the room, her chest heaving, her bare feet planted firmly on the floor. She had thrown the lamp with every ounce of fury she had bottled up inside her for the last eleven years—the fury of a sister whose family was stolen, the fury of a woman who refused to run anymore.
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Dante wiped the blood from his eyes, staring at Brielle in utter disbelief. He didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, pinning Marcus to the floor and slamming his fist into the traitor's jaw until the man went completely limp.
The study fell into a heavy, breathless silence, broken only by the steady hum of the city lights outside.
