Chapter 8 - Blood on the Mahogany
"I forgot nothing," Stefano said calmly.
Salvatore tapped his silver cane twice against the floor.
The heavy mahogany doors at the rear of the dining hall burst open. Ten men wearing tactical gear—not Rossi guards, but mercenaries from the Chicago outfit—flooded into the room, their assault rifles raised.
"Did you really think I didn't know you were tracking Clara's daughter?" Salvatore sneered, standing up slowly with the help of his cane. "I let you find her, Stefano. I needed you to bring her out of hiding so I could eliminate both of you in one room and hand the family assets over to Chicago in exchange for my retirement fund."
The capos around the table scrambled back, their chairs falling over as they raised their hands in panic.
"Salvatore, you sold us out?!" Marco gasped, clutching his bleeding nose.
"I sold out the weak," the old man spat. "Shoot them all."
Before the mercenaries could pull their triggers, I reached under my jacket.
My mother had taught me three things before she died: how to preserve old paper, how to bake a chocolate cake, and how to operate a Sig Sauer P320 concealed carry pistol.
I drew the small handgun from my waistband—the weapon Stefano had given me two hours ago—and fired three rapid shots directly into the light fixture above the mercenaries' heads.
The massive glass chandelier shattered, raining thousands of sharp crystal shards down onto the Chicago gunmen.
The room erupted into absolute chaos.
"Under the table!" Stefano roared, grabbing my arm and pulling me down as gunfire shredded the dining room walls.
Stefano didn't panic. He drew two pistols from beneath his coat, popping up from behind the heavy table like a ghost. Pop-pop-pop-pop. Four mercenaries fell instantly, blood spraying across the oil paintings.
Tommy—the scarred driver from the night before—burst through the side door with six of Stefano's loyalists, engaging the remaining Chicago gunmen in a fierce, deafening firefight.
I stayed low, my heart hammering against my ribs, reloading my small pistol with steady hands. My mother's training, buried deep in my subconscious for twenty years, was flooding back like an electric current.
Stefano looked down at me as he reloaded his own weapon, a look of fierce, wild pride flashing through his dark eyes.
"You really are your mother's daughter!" he shouted over the din of automatic fire.
"I told you I was staying!" I yelled back, aiming my pistol through the gap in the overturned chairs and taking down a gunman who was flanking Tommy.
Old Salvatore was shuffling toward the rear exit, guarded by his personal lieutenant.
"Stefano!" I pointed. "He's getting away!"
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"Not today," Stefano growled.
