Chapter 3 - The Slaughter in the FoyerI rolled left over the polished marble balustrade as heavy rounds shattered the stone pillars behind me, sending white dust and marble shards exploding into the air.
I didn't shoot like a man defending a house. I shot like a demon whose soul had been returned to him after five years in hell.
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
My silver sidearms barked in rapid, rhythmic succession. Three tactical shooters collapsed flat onto the marble floor before their sights could lock onto my position, their blood pooling across the white tile.
I dropped from the second-floor balcony, landing fluidly behind the grand piano, sweeping my arm low to fire through the wooden legs. Two more mercenaries shrieked as their knees shattered, their weapons clattering against the floor.
Dominic’s eyes widened in sudden, panic-stricken horror. He had forgotten who I was. He had spent five years watching me mourn a dead wife, believing I had grown soft, broken, and tired. He had forgotten that before I was a grieving husband, I was the Don who had conquered Chicago’s underground with iron and gunpowder.
"FALL BACK!" Dominic screamed, backing toward the shattered front gates as seven more of his men fell in four seconds flat. "GET TO THE VEHICLES!"
I stepped out from behind the piano, moving through the smoke like a shadow, empty magazines dropping to the floor, fresh clips sliding into my weapons with a heavy, mechanical CLICK.
Dominic reached the lead black SUV, scrambling into the passenger seat as his remaining driver slammed his foot onto the accelerator, the heavy tires screeching against the wet driveway as they fled into the rain.
I stood in the doorway of my ruined foyer, the rain washing the gunpowder residue from my face, my chest heaving as silence settled back over the estate.
My chief security lieutenant, Marco—bleeding from a shoulder wound—staggered out from the side corridor with four surviving loyal guards.
"Boss...!" Marco gasped, clutching his arm. "Are you hurt?!"
"Secure the perimeter, Marco," I ordered, my voice cold as Arctic ice. "Call Dr. Vance. And tell my private aviation team to prepare the jet."
"Where are we going, Don Alejandro?" Marco asked.
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I turned my head toward the service elevator behind the pantry, where my four sons were waiting for their father.
"We are going to burn Miami to the ground," I answered.
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