Chapter 8 - The Thunder and the Flame
Before Frank Russo could pull the trigger, the glass skylights of Warehouse B exploded inward in a rain of sharp, glittering shards.
Four flashbang grenades plummeted through the roof, detonating simultaneously thirty feet above the concrete floor with a blinding white glare and a deafening, bone-shattering BOOM.
The sudden surge of pressure and light instantly disoriented the Valenti enforcers. Men screamed, clutching their ears and eyes as shockwaves tore through the enclosed space.
In the exact same second, the heavy steel wall at the rear of the warehouse caved inward as a heavy armored tactical vehicle slammed through the metal plating. Marco and ten elite Castello riflemen poured through the breach, firing precise, suppressed bursts into the disoriented ambushers.
Pft-pft-pft-pft!
Frank Russo stumbled backward, blinded by the flash, firing his pistol wildly into the smoke.
Victor moved like a predator unleashed. Before Frank could recover his vision, Victor closed the distance in two broad strides, his large hand clamping around Frank’s wrist and wrenching it upward. A sickening CRACK echoed through the noise as Frank’s wrist fractured, dropping his silenced pistol to the floor.
Victor grabbed Frank by the lapels of his leather trench coat, slamming his heavy frame violently against the lead-lined container.
“You brought a knife to a war, Frank,” Victor growled into his ear, bringing his heavy right fist crashing into Frank’s jaw.
Frank slumped down against the base of the container, unconscious and bleeding profusely.
Across the room, Dominic Valenti’s personal bodyguards were quickly cut down or forced to drop their weapons under the overwhelming firepower of Marco’s tactical squad. The old Don stood alone in the center of the room, trembling, his gold-topped cane slipping from his weak fingers and clattering onto the bloody concrete.
Victor straightened his coat, stepped over Frank’s limp body, and walked calmly toward the old mob boss.
Dominic backed up until his spine hit the side of an armored sedan. “Victor... please... we can talk! We’ve known each other twenty years! It was Frank’s idea! He approached me!”
Victor stopped two feet away, pulling his .45 pistol from his shoulder holster. He didn't point it at Dominic’s head; he lowered the hammer and tucked it smoothly back into his leather rig.
“The Valenti treaty is officially void, Dominic,” Victor announced, his gravelly voice ringing clear across the smoke-filled room. “By sunset today, every asset your family holds at the docks, every warehouse on Pier 4, and every shipping lane under your name belongs to the Castello estate.”
Dominic’s breath hitched. “You’re stripping my family of everything? We’ll starve!”
“You’ll live,” Victor said coldly, looking down at the broken old man. “In a tiny apartment in the Southside, on a modest monthly pension provided by my firm. If you ever set foot on my docks again, I won't send an army, Dominic. I’ll send a coffin.”
Victor turned his back on the defeated boss and walked toward the smashed rear entrance where the cool morning breeze was blowing away the gunsmoke.
Standing near the armored vehicle, wearing a bulletproof tactical vest over her crisp blazer and holding a radio in her hand, was Sadie.
She watched Victor walk out of the smoke, entirely unharmed, immaculate, and triumphant. As their eyes met across the ruined warehouse, the terrifying darkness in Victor’s demeanor instantly melted away, replaced by an overwhelming look of relief.
He walked straight up to her, ignoring his lieutenants, ignoring the secure radios buzzing with updates. He reached out, his large hands gently cupping her face, his thumbs wiping a trace of gray soot from her cheek.
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“I kept my promise, Sadie,” he whispered, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion.
Sadie smiled, her eyes brimming with happy tears as she leaned into his touch, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “I never doubted you for a second, Victor. Not for a second.”
