Chapter 6 - Smoke and Steel
Downstairs, the grand conservatory was a disaster zone. Rare orchids, exotic ferns, and priceless glass display cases had been shredded by sustained automatic gunfire. Shards of glass littered the floor, crunching beneath the tactical boots of Moretti’s hitmen as they pushed past the ruined archways.
"Clear the left flank!" a gruff voice shouted over the din of battle.
Three men in black tactical gear crept past the shattered fountain, weapons raised.
Suddenly, the ceiling lights flickered and died, plunging the conservatory into pitch darkness, illuminated only by the strobing flashes of distant lightning and the muzzle sparks of gunfire.
From the shadows above the iron-railed mezzanine, Dominic Rossi dropped silently down behind the lead hitman.
Before the man could turn, Dominic’s forearm locked around his throat with the crushing force of a hydraulic press. With a sharp *crack*, the man went limp, slipping silently to the floor.
"What was that?" the second hitman barked, spinning around.
He raised his rifle, but a silenced burst from Dominic’s MP5 caught him squarely in the chest armor, dropping him instantly.
From across the courtyard, Marco and his security team engaged the remaining Moretti enforcers in a fierce, tactical firefight, utilizing the stone pillars and heavy marble statues as cover. The Rossi men moved with chilling efficiency—trained killers who knew every square inch of the mansion better than the intruders.
In less than four minutes, the gunfire died down to a few scattered groans of pain.
Dominic walked slowly across the blood-spattered marble floor, stepping over broken ferns and shattered glass, until he reached the shattered outer entrance.
A lone figure stood in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by the wreckage of the SUVs. Salvatore Moretti—fat, sweating, clutching a silver-plated revolver in his shaking hand—stared in absolute horror at the carnage surrounding him. His fourteen elite enforcers were unconscious or neutralized.
"Salvatore," Dominic’s voice cut through the cool night air like a razor blade.
Moretti spun around, his eyes wide with terror as he raised his pistol. "You—you arrogant bastard! My daughter—"
Dominic didn't raise his rifle. He simply walked toward Moretti, his footsteps echoing rhythmically against the stone.
"Your daughter was a toxic liability who tried to assault my mother in my own home," Dominic said calmly, stopping ten feet away. "And you are a fool for thinking you could walk onto Rossi ground and walk away alive."
Moretti’s hand trembled so violently the revolver nearly slipped from his fingers. "I have backers in New York! If you kill me—"
"You have no one," Dominic interrupted softly. "As of two minutes ago, my legal team seized your shipping ports, froze your offshore accounts, and delivered the evidence of your tax evasion and racketeering directly to the federal prosecutor's office. You are bankrupt, Salvatore. And you are trespassing."
Marco stepped out of the shadows behind Moretti, pressing the cold barrel of a pistol against the base of the older man’s skull.
Moretti dropped his revolver. It hit the concrete with a dull clatter. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the stone, sobbing in utter defeat.
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"Take him to the basement holding cells," Dominic ordered without looking back. "And clear this mess up. My mother is trying to sleep."
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