Chapter 7 - Blood and Marinara
Richard stood at the base of the ladder, wearing a black trench coat over his suit. Flanking him were two broad-shouldered men with shaved heads, wearing matching black tactical jackets. One of them held Dominic by the back of his neck, Dominic’s face bruised and bloodied, his hands bound behind his back with industrial zip-ties.
"Dominic!" Marco moved forward, but the second thug immediately drew an automatic pistol and racked the slide, aiming it between Marco's eyes.
"Don't do anything rash, Marco," Richard said smoothly, walking around the oak table to inspect the open chests. He picked up one of the velvet rolls, letting a stream of raw diamonds spill into his leather-gloved palm. A predatory grin spread across his face. "Magnificent. Thirty-five years of family history, finally back where it belongs."
"You promised we'd only take the ledgers and leave," Serena said, lowering her weapon slightly as she turned toward Richard. "You promised the Rossi family wouldn't be harmed if they complied."
Richard didn't even look at her. He pulled a heavy, sound-suppressed pistol from his inner coat pocket and rested the barrel casually on the open lid of the footlocker.
"Did I say that, Serena? I say a great many things when I’m closing an acquisition," Richard murmured. He picked up one of the court ledgers, turning a few yellowed pages. "Do you have any idea what is inside these books? The names of five sitting appellate judges. The private offshore bank accounts of the current deputy mayor. If these records hit the press, Whitmore Hospitality doesn't just collapse—half the power structure in the state goes to federal prison."
Richard looked at Marco, then at Dominic, his smile vanishing into ice.
"Do you really think I can let two brothers who know the location of Arthur Hale's blackmail vault walk out onto Brooklyn’s streets?"
Dominic let out a muffled sob of terror. "Richard, please! I signed the papers! I gave you power of attorney over the restaurant shares! I won't say anything!"
"I know you won't, Dominic," Richard said softly. "Because dead men are remarkably discreet."
Serena gasped, stepping back. "Richard, no! That wasn't the deal!"
"Shut up, Serena," Richard hissed, turning the gun on her. "You served your purpose. You brought me into the kitchen, you found the vault. But your grandfather's bloodline ends tonight, along with Antonio Rossi’s."
He glanced at the thug holding Dominic. "Take them up to the walk-in freezer. Break the ammonia valves, lock the heavy vault door, and ignite the wood stacks in the pizza oven. By the time the fire department puts out the blaze, the building will be completely gutted, the concrete vault will be scorched clean, and the coroner will report a tragic commercial grease fire."
"You bastard!" Marco roared.
Marco didn't charge Richard. He lunged sideways, grabbing the edge of the heavy oak table with all his strength and heaving it upward.
The hundred-pound table flipped on its side, smashing directly into the thug aiming at Marco. The gun discharged with a muffled pop, the bullet ricocheting off the reinforced steel ceiling with a shower of sparks.
The heavy table crashed down on the thug's leg with a sickening crunch. The man screamed, dropping his weapon.
"Kill him!" Richard yelled, raising his suppressed pistol.
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Dominic, seeing his brother fight, suddenly lowered his head and hurled his entire weight into the thug holding him. The impact drove the second thug into the iron ladder, knocking the breath from his lungs.
"Marco, run!" Dominic screamed.
