Chapter 39 - THE SIEGE WITHIN
Before Salvatore’s blade could cross the width of the walnut table, a deafening gunshot shattered the heavy air of the ballroom.
A high-caliber bullet ripped through the mahogany wood directly in front of Salvatore, sending a shower of jagged splinters into his chest, forcing him backward with a hoarse cry of pain.
The heavy service doors behind the Council table blew off their hinges with a violent crash.
Through the dust and smoke strode Vincent Moretti.
He looked like an avenging ghost risen straight from hell. His dark suit was scorched, his left arm bandaged in makeshift black tape, dried blood caked along the left side of his jaw. But his dark eyes burned with an incandescent, terrifying fire. In his right hand, he held a heavy .45 automatic, smoke curling lazily from the barrel.
“Vincent...” Elena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, tears instantly spilling over her lashes.
Behind Vincent stood Marco and six heavily armed loyalist soldiers, their rifles covering every exit, locking down the room in seconds.
Don Lucchese did not move an inch. The old man slowly rested his hands on the table, looking from the wounded Salvatore to the bloodied son. “It seems the reports of your demise were premature, Vincent.”
“My father always was sloppy with his fire,” Vincent said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that made the hair on my arms stand up. He didn't take his eyes off Salvatore, who was slumped against the projection screen, clutching his bleeding shoulder where a piece of oak had gouged through his fine wool suit.
“You survived,” Salvatore spat, coughing a fleck of crimson onto his white collar. “Like a cockroach in the walls.”
“I survived because Daniel Bennett taught me how to read your moves before you made them,” Vincent replied, stepping closer until the barrel of his gun hovered three inches from Salvatore’s forehead. “He knew you would run to the Council. He knew you would try to claim his daughter’s future. And he left me the keys to dismantle every shell corporation you own.”
“You can’t kill me here, boy,” Salvatore wheezed, his grey eyes darting desperately toward the other bosses around the table. “Lucchese! The law of sanctuary! The St. Regis is neutral ground!”
Don Lucchese slowly stood up, leaning on his own plain wooden cane. He looked at Salvatore with utter disgust, as if he were looking at a rabid dog that had wandered into a sanctuary.
“Sanctuary is reserved for men of honor, Salvatore,” Don Lucchese said softly, his voice cold as a winter tomb. “You broke the blood oath seven years ago when you sold your wife to the Sicilians. By the unanimous decree of the Commission... your name is stricken from the books. You have no seat. You have no family. You have no sanctuary.”
Don Lucchese turned his back. The other three bosses followed suit, rising from their chairs and walking toward the private side exit, their enforcers trailing behind them.
They were leaving Salvatore to his fate.
The grand ballroom emptied until there were only five of us left: Vincent, Elena, Marco, Salvatore, and me, holding Hope against my chest.
Salvatore looked up at his son, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The arrogance was finally gone, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated terror of a predator that had finally been cornered by a stronger beast.
“Vincent...” Salvatore whispered, his voice cracking, trying to summon a shred of paternal authority. “I am your father. Without me, you are nothing. You carry my blood.”
Vincent looked at him for a long, silent moment. The gun in his hand never wavered.
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“You stopped being my father the day you left my mother to die,” Vincent said softly.
He pulled the trigger.
