Chapter 3 - THE AMBUSH AT MIDNIGHT
Shards of heavy Bohemian crystal rained down upon the screaming crowd as darkness smothered the ballroom. Panic was instantaneous. High-society women shrieked, trampling each other in their designer heels as tables overturned, silver platters clattered across marble, and gunfire shattered the walls.
In the first millisecond of violence, Frank didn't draw his weapon to defend himself. He lunged forward, throwing his broad, Kevlar-lined frame completely over Villa, slamming her down against the reinforced mahogany bar as bullets chewed through the plaster inches above their heads.
Below them, Titan roared—a terrifying, primal sound of pure war.
"Stay down!" Frank barked directly into Villa's ear. His cologne—rich cedarwood, gun oil, and leather—filled her senses, completely overriding her panic. "Do not move from this floor, Villa, or I swear to God I will chain you to me."
"What is happening?!" she screamed into the darkness, her voice choked with dust and gunpowder smoke. "Who is shooting at us?!"
"The people who realize they just lost the kingdom," Frank hissed.
Red tracer rounds carved brutal lines through the velvet gloom. Muzzle flashes strobed across the room, illuminating masked gunmen in tactical gear repelling from the balcony rails. These weren't street thugs; they were professional contract killers moving in tight fire-team formations.
Frank drew a customized Kimber .45 from beneath his tailored armpit holster. With cold, mechanical precision, he rose on one knee. The slide racked with a sharp clack. Frank fired three consecutive shots into the darkness above. A gunman screamed, pitching over the gilded balcony railing and crashing headfirst onto a champagne tower sixty feet below.
Beside them, a shadow darted around the edge of the bar, wielding a silenced submachine gun aimed directly at the back of Frank’s exposed neck.
"Frank, look out!" Villa screamed on pure instinct.
Before the shooter could squeeze the trigger, a ninety-pound mass of muscle and fangs launched through the smoke. Titan caught the shooter by the forearm, the sickening crunch of breaking bone audible even beneath the gunfire. The assassin shrieked, dropping the gun as Titan dragged him violently to the floor, pinning him with feral ferocity.
"Good boy," Frank muttered, stepping forward and putting a single round through the assassin's shoulder to neutralize him, keeping the man alive for interrogation.
Marco materialized out of the chaos, his trench coat torn and his face streaked with soot, flanked by six Costello heavies armed with heavy tactical shotguns.
"Boss! The south and east exits are blocked with heavy iron chains!" Marco shouted over the din of screaming guests and dying echoes of gunfire. "Falcone slipped out through the kitchen freight elevator the second the lights blew. He had an armored convoy waiting on Forty-Fourth Street. This was coordinated!"
Frank’s face hardened into a mask of pure obsidian. "Carmine knew. He always knew she was alive." He reached down, grasping Villa’s wrist with an iron grip that left no room for defiance, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. "Get the subterranean exit open. Bring the dog. We move to the Westchester safehouse now."
Villa stumbled, her sensible black flats slipping on spilled champagne and shattered crystal. She looked around the decimated ballroom in sheer horror. Dead men lay sprawled across overturned banquet tables; debutantes were weeping in corners, covered in soot; and the life she had known thirty minutes ago—a quiet life of double shifts, overdue rent in a tiny shared Brooklyn apartment, and lonely bus rides—had vanished into ashes.
"I can't go with you!" she cried, pulling against Frank's suffocating grip as they sprinted down a narrow staff hallway behind the bar. "I don't know you! I don't care about your money, or your empire, or who my mother was! I just work here! Let me go!"
Frank stopped so suddenly at the heavy steel service door that Villa collided with his chest. Titan nudged her hand anxiously with his nose, licking away a bead of sweat on her knuckles.
Frank leaned down until his burning, merciless eyes were inches from hers.
"Listen to me, little girl," he growled, the intensity of his voice sending shivers down her spine. "Nineteen years ago, my enemies took you from my wife's arms and threw you away like garbage. I spent every night of my miserable life dreaming of tearing the city apart to find you. You think you can go back to your little apartment? You think you can take the subway tomorrow?"
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper.
"The moment Falcone’s shooters saw Titan lay at your feet, your quiet life was murdered. If you step out that front door alone, you won't make it two blocks before they kidnap you, torture you to find my vault keys, and leave you in the East River. You are a Costello. You carry my blood. And in this city, that means you either stand behind my guns, or you die in the street. Now move!"
Villa swallowed her tears, the horrific reality slamming into her chest. She looked down at Titan, who sat staunchly beside her, growling toward the smoky hallway behind them.
May you like
She nodded once, terrified.
Marco kicked open the heavy subterranean blast doors, revealing a dimly lit tunnel that led into the forgotten catacombs beneath Manhattan. But just as the last Costello guard stepped inside to seal the hydraulic locks, a grenade skittered across the concrete floor, smoking aggressively toward Villa's feet.
