Chapter 4 - A Crack in the Iron Fortress
Dominic froze. His hand dropped instinctively to the handle of his custom .45, his thumb resting gently on the hammer.
Vance slid down the steps like an oil shadow, positioning himself on the left side of the metal access plate. The corridor here smelled of damp earth, centuries-old limestone, and something sharp and chemical—gun oil and antiseptic.
“Vance,” Dominic whispered, his voice lower than a sigh. “Thermal check.”
Vance pulled a handheld thermal imaging scope from his vest and pressed the rubber eyepiece against the seam of the door. The pale screen glowed green, then blossomed with orange and red heat signatures.
“One target,” Vance reported in a whisper. “Sitting at an iron table. Six feet, broad shoulders. Heart rate is steady. He’s got an assault rifle resting across his knees.”
Dominic’s breathing turned ragged. For twelve years, he had laid flowers on an empty marble mausoleum in Philadelphia every Sunday morning. He had funded orphanages in Leo’s name. He had carried the agony of a dead sibling like a lead weight in his soul.
And now, the brother he mourned was sitting twenty inches away through a sheet of galvanized steel.
“Evelyn,” Dominic whispered without taking his eyes off the door. “Take Sophie and move five steps down behind that reinforced concrete pillar. If gunfire breaks out, stay flat. Do not stand up until I tell you.”
“Mr. Valenti, please be careful,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I guided Sophie behind the damp pillar, shielding her body entirely with my own.
Dominic nodded once to Vance.
*Three. Two. One.*
Vance hit the heavy latch with a specialized breaching tool. The door swung open with a sharp, concussive bang.
Dominic surged into the room, weapon raised, Vance clearing the corners right behind him.
“DON’T MOVE!” Dominic roared.
The figure seated at the table didn’t reach for his weapon. He slowly raised his hands, a jagged, scarred smile spreading across a face that looked like a terrifying ghost of Dominic’s own youth.
The man’s left cheek was a mass of grafted tissue and burn scars, stretching from his ear down to his collarbone. But the eyes—dark, predatory, and undeniably Valenti—were identical to Dominic’s.
“Hello, big brother,” the man rasped, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. “You’re late for the funeral.”
Dominic stood rigid, his gun leveled directly at the center of the man’s forehead. His hands, usually steady as bedrock, trembled with an uncontrollable tremor.
“Leo,” Dominic breathed, the name ripping out of his chest like a shard of glass.
“In the flesh,” Leo chuckled, though there was no humor in it. His eyes darted to the doorway, catching sight of the corner of my apron. “I see you brought company. The maid and her little spy. Marcus told me over the comms that a little girl ruined twelve years of planning with one sentence.”
“Marcus used you!” Dominic shouted, stepping forward, his voice cracking with agony. “He set you up on I-80, Leo! He cut your fuel lines, alerted the cartel, and pulled you from the burning wreckage so he could keep you chained like a dog! Look at me! Look at your brother! I never betrayed you!”
Leo’s scarred face twisted into a mask of pure, demonic rage. He slammed both palms against the metal table, rising to his feet.
“LIAR!” Leo spat, saliva flying from his lips. “Marcus gave me the audio tapes! I heard you telling him to clear the board! I heard you say my ambition was a cancer on the family business! You wanted the empire to yourself! You wanted to be the clean, respectable businessman, and I was too dirty for your pristine white suits!”
“The tapes were spliced, you fool!” Dominic took another step forward, lowering his weapon just an inch, exposing his chest. “If I wanted you dead, why did I keep your room untouched for twelve years? Why did I wear your signet ring until the day Marcus stole it from my safe? Look at the documents in Marcus’s office! Look at the offshore transfers!”
From the corridor above, a sharp blast of automatic gunfire erupted.
Vance spun around, raising his carbine. “Boss! Breached! Marcus’s strike team just blew the cellar stairs! They’re coming down the chute!”
Leo blinked, confusion flashing across his scarred face for a split second. “What? Marcus said the strike team was supposed to secure the perimeter, not clear the cellar.”
“He’s cleaning house, Leo!” Dominic yelled over the sound of echoing gunshots. “He doesn’t need you anymore! The bomb failed, the plan fell apart, and now you’re just a loose end that ties him to the conspiracy! If we die down here, Marcus tells the Commission that we killed each other, and he inherits the entire syndicate by morning!”
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Before Leo could answer, the wall behind them splintered under a hail of high-caliber rifle rounds.
***
