Chapter 4 - The Lion's Wrath
The rain fell in thick, heavy sheets, turning the long gravel driveway of the Torino estate into a slick, grey mirror.
At the end of the drive, the massive wrought-iron gates stood closed, their heavy steel locks reinforced with chains. Behind them, hidden in the shadows of the old oak trees, six of Vincent’s best men stood with submachine guns tucked under their long waterproof coats, their eyes fixed on the dark road beyond.
Inside the mansion, the lights had been turned off.
Vincent stood in the grand foyer, holding a classic, short-barreled shotgun in his right hand. He was no longer wearing his tailored suit; he was in a black tactical sweater and heavy cargo pants, his face pale and set in a hard, expressionless mask.
Marco stood beside him, holding an assault rifle, his radio earpiece crackling with static.
"They're at the gate, Boss," Marco whispered. "Two black Cadillacs. No headlights. They’re asking to speak with you. They’ve got Carmine Moretti’s underboss, Silvio, in the lead car."
"Tell them Silvio can walk up the driveway alone," Vincent said. "If anyone else steps out of those cars, open fire."
"Understood."
Five minutes later, the heavy front door opened, and Silvio "The Knife" Rossi stepped into the foyer.
He was a tall, thin man with a scarred face and a long black leather coat that dripped rainwater onto the polished limestone floor. He didn't look afraid; he looked amused. He looked around the dark, silent house with a smug, patronizing grin.
"Vincent," Silvio said, his voice a greasy, high-pitched drawl. "You’ve got the lights off. What’s the matter? You trying to save on the electric bill?"
"What do you want, Silvio?" Vincent asked, not moving from the center of the room.
"Carmine wants his money, Vincent," Silvio said, taking a step closer. "Dino Valenti made a deal. Four million for the Brooklyn docks. You destroyed the product, which means you owe us the cash. And Carmine doesn't like to wait."
"Dino Valenti is dead," Vincent said. "And his deals died with him."
"Yeah, well, we know why you’re acting so tough, Vincent," Silvio sneered, his eyes darting toward the stairs. "Word is you’ve got a little souvenir up there. A little maid’s kid. Dino said you’ve gone soft in your old age. He said you’re spending your retirement fund on baby food."
Vincent didn't answer. He raised the shotgun, the heavy barrel pointing directly at Silvio’s chest.
Silvio’s grin didn't waver. "You can't shoot me, Vincent. You shoot me, and Carmine brings fifty men through that gate before the sun comes up. Your crews are loyal to the money, not to some old man who’s lost his mind over a civilian. They won't fight a war for a maid's daughter."
"You're right," Vincent said softly. "They won't."
He pulled the trigger.
The blast was deafening in the enclosed space of the foyer. The heavy slug hit Silvio square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward through the glass panels of the front door. He landed on the wet gravel of the porch, his body twitching once before going entirely still, his blood pooling in the rainwater.
Marco didn't hesitate. He keyed his radio. "Fire!"
The quiet of the suburban night was shattered by the roaring chorus of automatic gunfire from the gate.
Through the shattered windows of the foyer, Vincent watched the muzzle flashes flare in the dark trees. The two black Cadillacs tried to reverse, their tires spinning wildly on the gravel, but the heavy steel gates had been blocked by two of Vincent’s armored SUVs.
The shootout lasted less than three minutes.
When the silence returned, the only sound was the steady, gentle patter of the rain on the roof and the hiss of steam from the shattered radiators of the Moretti cars.
May you like
Marco walked out onto the porch, checked the bodies, and returned to the foyer, wiping the water from his face. "All clear, Boss. Six dead. No casualties on our side."
"Call Carmine Moretti," Vincent said, his voice flat, cold, and entirely dead. "Tell him I am coming to Brooklyn. Tell him to bring his ledger."
