Chapter 7 - DANCE WITH THE DEVIL
The three pursuing sedans roared into the shipping yard, their tires screeching on the wet gravel before forming a tactical semicircle around my solitary figure.
Doors flew open. A dozen heavily armed mercenaries stepped out, their rifles leveled at my chest. From the center vehicle emerged Marco Rossi, holding a golden Desert Eagle, wearing an arrogant smirk that made my blood boil.
"End of the line, Alessandro!" Marco shouted over the roar of the thunder. "Where's the girl? Give her up, and I promise to give you a quick bullet instead of feeding you to the Hudson River!"
I stood motionless under the downpour, my hands resting casually at my sides. "You sold your soul to Falcone for scraps, Marco. You traded loyalty for a throne built on sand."
"Falcone is the future!" Marco yelled. "You were too soft! You let your brother live when he walked away, and now you're risking your entire empire for a nameless baby!"
"Her name is Mia Duca," I said calmly. "And she is the rightful heir to everything you tried to steal."
Before Marco could process my words, I pressed a small detonator concealed inside my palm.
The two perimeter shipping containers directly behind the mercenaries erupted in a blinding wall of C4 explosives. I had rigged this shipyard three years ago as a contingency fallback point for syndicate turf wars.
The shockwave lifted two of the sedans into the air, flipping them onto their roofs in an inferno of fire and flying metal. The mercenary line shattered in complete chaos.
I drew both handguns instantly, closing the distance with terrifying speed. Every shot I fired found an enemy throat or chest. Through the smoke and flames, I moved like a wrathful ghost, cutting down Marco's elite squad one by one before they could even regain their footing.
Marco scrambled backward, panic replacing his arrogance as he watched his entire force wiped out in thirty seconds. He fired wildly in my direction, but his hands were shaking so violently the rounds flew harmlessly into the night.
I kicked the Desert Eagle out of his grip, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed his spine against the burning chassis of his own car.
"Where is Carmine Falcone right now?" I demanded, my fingers crushing his windpipe.
"Go... go to hell..." Marco sputtered, spitting blood.
I pressed the red-hot barrel of my Glock against his cheek. The sizzle of burning flesh broke his resolve instantly.
"The Grand Plaza Penthouse!" Marco screamed in agony. "He's waiting for the wire transfer confirmation! He has eighty men guarding the perimeter! You'll never get close to him!"
"I don't need to get close to him," I whispered coldly. "He's going to invite me in."
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With a brutal twist of my wrist, I ended Marco's treachery forever, letting his lifeless body collapse into the muddy gravel.
***
