Chapter 6 - The Battle of Romano's
The dining room of Romano’s was a war zone. The elegant white tablecloths were shredded by glass and shrapnel, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and cordite. Three of Vincent’s men lay wounded behind the marble bar, returning fire toward the front entrance.
Miller’s men had breached the red door using a tactical charge. They moved with military efficiency, using body shields and high-caliber submachine guns.
Vincent stepped out onto the second-floor mezzanine, his (.45) raised. He didn't use cover; he stood tall against the red emergency lights, a massive figure of vengeance. He fired three steady, deliberate shots, dropping the two lead entry men before they could reach the stairs.
"Caruso!" Miller’s voice shouted from the darkness near the door. "The girl is dead anyway! You're dying for a ghost!"
"The only ghosts in this room are the ones I haven't made yet, Miller!" Vincent roared back, firing toward the sound of the voice.
A hail of bullets chipped away at the mahogany railing of the mezzanine, forcing Vincent to drop to one knee. He ejected his empty magazine, slapping a fresh one home with the palm of his hand. He looked down at the restaurant his father had built—the place where he had learned that power was the only currency that mattered. For years, he had used that power to enrich himself, to protect his territory, to dominate the city.
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But tonight, as he felt the cold sweat on his forehead and the heat of the gunfire around him, he realized he had never felt more alive. He wasn't fighting for money or turf. He was fighting for a little girl who thought he had kind eyes.
He stood up again, his weapon barking into the dark.
