Chapter 4 - Blood on the MarbleThe front double doors of the Moretti estate—massive slabs of imported oak and wrought iron that had stood untouched for half a century—exploded inward with a deafening screech of splintering wood and torn steel.
A heavy-duty armored tactical vehicle sat idling in the open courtyard, its reinforced steel ram still smoking from the impact.
Twelve heavily armed mercenaries poured through the shattered entrance, their black combat gear stenciled with the insignia of Vance’s syndicates. They thought they were walking into a isolated home defense scenario.
They didn't expect to find twenty of Chicago’s most lethal enforcers waiting for them in a coordinated crossfire.
From the second-floor balcony, I raised my tactical assault rifle, sighting down the barrel directly at the lead mercenary crossing the foyer.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
The recoil slammed into my shoulder as a sustained burst dropped the lead enforcer instantly. Across the foyer, Marcus and his squad opened up from behind the marble pillars, turning the grand entrance into a blinding storm of copper-jacketed lead and flying glass.
Vance’s men scrambled for cover, shouting frantic orders in confusion, realizing too late that they had walked straight into an ambush.
I dropped the empty magazine, slapped a fresh one home, and descended the grand staircase two steps at a time, moving through the smoke like a ghost of vengeance. Every corner I rounded, every shadow I crossed, became a graveyard for Vance’s infiltrators.
They wanted my territory? I’d give them six feet of it.
They wanted my empire? I’d bury them beneath it.
Within ten minutes, the grand foyer was dead silent, save for the groans of wounded mercenaries and the hiss of a ruptured radiator near the coat closet.
I walked slowly across the blood-stained marble floor, stepping over discarded assault rifles and shattered porcelain vases, until I reached the front doorway.
Parked just outside the gates, sitting comfortably inside a bulletproof Mercedes Maybach, was Victor Vance himself.
He was wearing a light gray tailored suit, holding a silver-knobbed cane, watching the burning gates of my estate with an expression of mild annoyance rather than panic. He thought his men had succeeded. He thought he was watching the fall of the Moretti dynasty.
Until he saw me step out of the smoke, my assault rifle resting casually in my hands, my clothes splattered with the blood of his best soldiers.
Vance’s eyes widened behind his designer frames. He hit the master window control, rolling down the bulletproof glass just an inch.
"Moretti," Vance called out, forcing a crooked, nervous smile. "I see your security detail is... lacking."
"Your men fought bravely, Victor," I replied, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet courtyard as I stopped twenty feet from his car. "Though they leak a lot. Makes a terrible mess of the foyer."
Vance’s smile vanished. "Where are the boys, Alejandro? You can't hide them forever. The syndicates want new blood. We want the Swiss accounts Sofia set up."
"Swiss accounts?" I tilted my head, letting out a cold, humorless laugh. "You think this was about money, Victor?"
"Of course it's about money!" Vance snapped, his composure finally cracking. "Everything in Chicago is about money!"
"No, Victor," I said, raising the barrel of my rifle and leveling it squarely at the center of his windshield. "This is about the fact that you stepped foot on my property, threatened my family, and woke up a sleeping dog."
Vance’s face turned the color of chalk. He screamed at his driver, "Drive! Drive through the gates right now!"
The driver slammed his foot on the accelerator, but before the Maybach could lunge forward, Marcus and three of my men stepped out from behind the stone gateposts, simultaneously firing armor-piercing rounds directly into the engine block.
Clang! Hiss!
Thick white smoke billowed from under the hood as the luxury sedan shuddered, coughed twice, and died completely, rolling to a pathetic halt against the stone pillar.
I walked slowly up to the driver's side window, raised the butt of my rifle, and smashed it against the reinforced glass with a deafening crack.
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The glass spiderwebbed, holding together by its security film. I struck it again. And again. Until the glass finally gave way, showering the terrified driver in glittering shards.
I reached inside, unlocked the door from the inside, and yanked Victor Vance out by the lapels of his expensive Italian suit, dragging him face-first onto the gravel driveway.
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