Chapter 6 - Blood on the Lawn
The morning fog had turned into a thick, gray drizzle by the time the two black SUVs crunched across the gravel driveway and slammed to a halt directly in front of the grand marble steps of the Valentino estate.
The doors flew open.
Men in tactical black gear, wearing ceramic body armor and carrying submachine guns, poured out of the vehicles like ants spilling from a kicked anthill. Leading them was a tall, scarred enforcer named Rico—Victor Romano’s right-hand killer, a man with a reputation for leaving nothing alive behind him.
"Blow the front doors!" Rico shouted over the hiss of the rain, gesturing to two men carrying a heavy breaching charge.
The enforcers ran up the marble steps, slapping the magnetic explosive against the reinforced oak double doors with practiced efficiency.
"Fire in the hole!"
BOOM.
The explosion blew the heavy oak doors inward in a storm of splinters, smoke, and shattered brass. The enforcers cheered, raising their weapons and charging into the grand foyer like a pack of wolves descending on an empty den.
Except the foyer was completely empty.
"Clear!" the lead man shouted, stepping onto the Persian rug.
Suddenly, the heavy iron chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling above them dropped six feet with a sharp clank as the secondary winch released. At the same moment, crossfire erupted from the balcony above and the side corridors simultaneously.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Bullets chewed through the marble pillars and shattered the crystal vases. Three of Romano’s enforcers dropped instantly, hitting the floor with heavy, lifeless thuds.
"Ambush! Fall back!" Rico roared, diving behind a marble pillar as a storm of lead ripped over his head.
From the shadows of the staircase, Marcus Valentino walked out into the open foyer.
He wasn't wearing body armor. He wore his charcoal suit, his coat unbuttoned, holding the tactical shotgun with casual, devastating ease. He pumped the slide, ejecting a spent shell that clattered against the marble floor.
"Rico," Marcus called out, his voice cutting through the ringing gunfire.
Rico peeked out from behind his pillar, his face twisted in panic. "Valentino! You think you can take all of us?"
"I don't think, Rico," Marcus said, walking slowly toward him. "I count."
BOOM.
Marcus fired from the hip. The buckshot caught the marble pillar inches from Rico’s face, showering him in stone shrapnel and blowing his submachine gun out of his hands.
Before Rico could blink, Rocco and two other guards stepped out from the side corridors, their rifles pressed directly against the backs of the surviving enforcers.
"Drop your weapons," Rocco ordered.
One by one, the North Side enforcers let their rifles hit the floor, raising their hands in surrender as the fight drained out of them in less than three minutes.
Rico glared at Marcus, his teeth clenched in hatred. "Victor will send a hundred more. You can't hide behind these walls forever, Marcus. The Outfit owns this city."
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Marcus stepped up close, towering over the kneeling enforcer, his face a mask of cold, implacable granite.
"Tell Victor he doesn't own anything," Marcus whispered. "Tell him I'm coming for the docks. And when I take them, I'm going to use his desk to sign his death warrant."
