19. Enzo
Enzo
The audio feed piped directly into my earpiece brings the sickening, cultured baritone of my father’s voice into the cramped confines of the adjoining parlor.
I stand hidden in the shadows, my back pressed firmly against the peeling floral wallpaper of Villa Rosa, listening to the monster who forged me spin his arrogant delusions.
The encrypted tablet rests in the palm of my left hand, casting a pale, ghostly glow over my tactical gear.
Across the screen, a glowing green line tracks Elena’s heartbeat, transmitting the data from the microscopic biometric patch I pressed to her skin.
Her heart rate is flawlessly even. She sits across from the most dangerous patriarch on the eastern seaboard, feeding him a masterclass of deceit, and her vital signs do not even spike.
She plays the sadistic bastard like a seasoned virtuoso, wrapping his misogyny and his bloated ego around her finger.
The boys in Boston were flawed experiments, Roberto says through the transmission, the condescension practically dripping from his tongue. Too much emotion, too much erratic anger. But you and I... we are going to build something spectacular.
My right hand tightens around the grip of my customized submachine gun, the rough polymer biting harshly into my calloused palm.
I watch the glowing screen of the tablet, waiting for the trap to spring.
Every instinct roaring in my blood demands I kick the door down and put a bullet between his eyes immediately, but I force myself to trust Elena.
She demanded the right to corner him. She demanded the right to deliver him to the reaper.
Then, a notification illuminates the top corner of the tablet.
A single text message from her hidden phone.
Burn.
A dark thrill races through my veins, replacing the phantom memories of my childhood trauma with a blistering, homicidal focus. I tap the radio transmitter strapped to the collar of my Kevlar vest.
"Execute," I command, my voice a freezing, remorseless rasp. "No survivors on the perimeter."
"Copy that, Boss," Giancarlo replies through the encrypted frequency. "Lighting them up."
Outside the thick limestone walls of the estate, the Boston squad unleashes hell.
The suppressed sniper rifles positioned on the northern ridge go to work, the soundless muzzles spitting death into the courtyard.
Through the crack in the parlor window, I hear the dull, consecutive thwacks of high-velocity rounds finding their marks, followed instantly by the meaty thuds of Roberto’s elite mercenaries collapsing onto the cobblestones.
They never even have the chance to draw their weapons or shout a warning.
The eradication is methodically flawless.
"Courtyard is secure," Giancarlo announces over the radio. "Blowing the rear exits now."
A concussive explosion rocks the foundation of Villa Rosa, the explosive charges obliterating the secondary escape routes leading into the valley.
The floorboards beneath my boots vibrate from the shockwave, dust raining down from the decaying ceiling of the parlor.
The detonation funnels any surviving rats directly back into the crosshairs of the sniper teams, sealing the perimeter in a cage of fire and shattered mortar.
The trap is sprung. It is my turn to play.
I drop the tablet onto a nearby velvet armchair, bringing my submachine gun up to my shoulder. I take two massive strides across the parlor, raising my booted foot, and kick the adjoining mahogany door with a devastating, bone-shattering force.
The wood splinters violently around the brass latch, the hinges screaming as the door flies inward and crashes against the dining room wall.
I step through the threshold, the dust and smoke swirling around my dark tactical gear, presenting myself as the literal embodiment of the grim reaper coming to collect a decades-old debt.
The grand crystal chandelier sways frantically above the sprawling dining table, the illuminated prisms casting chaotic, dancing light across the Renaissance frescoes.
Roberto Severato sits at the far end of the mahogany table.
The expensive glass of the red wine slips from his manicured fingers, shattering against the polished floor, sending a spray of red liquid across the pristine white fabric of his tailored suit.
The arrogant, condescending mask he wore just seconds ago dissolves into a portrait of terror.
The blood drains fully from his aristocratic face, leaving him looking like a fragile, aging coward.
"Hello, father," I state, my voice cutting through the ringing aftermath of the exterior explosions.
Roberto stares at me, his eyes wide with a horrified comprehension.
He looks from the barrel of my gun to the woman sitting calmly across from him.
Elena does not flinch. She remains seated, her posture impeccably straight, a wicked, triumphant smirk curving her painted lips.
She outsmarted the untouchable Don of the Severato syndicate, manipulating his rotting ego to orchestrate his doom.
"Enzo," Roberto gasps, his cultured baritone fracturing into a breathless, panicked wheeze. He attempts to push his ornate chair back, his hands scrambling against the edge of the table. "You... you coordinated this. The Vitiello girl lied to me."
"She is not a girl, you pathetic bastard," I correct him, stalking forward into the room, my finger resting firmly against the trigger guard. "She is the queen of this island, and she just served your head on a silver platter."
Before I can close the final distance to the table, the massive oak doors leading to the main corridor burst open.
The four mercenaries Roberto banished from the dining hall rush back into the room, their suppressed assault rifles raised, thrown into a panic by the explosions outside and the sound of my violent breach.
They flood the space, attempting to protect their patriarch.
I pivot on my heel, dropping into a protective crouch to minimize my silhouette while simultaneously acquiring the first target.
The lead guard clears the doorway, his weapon sweeping toward my position.
I squeeze the trigger, delivering a punishing three-round burst. The hollow-point ammunition tears through the center of his chest, cracking his sternum, before the final round takes him directly above his right eye.
His skull snaps backward, a spray of crimson painting the intricate woodwork of the doorframe as he drops like a stone.
The second and third mercenaries fan out, attempting to flank my position from the left side of the dining hall.
I do not grant them the luxury of finding cover.
I swing the muzzle of my submachine gun, tracking the movement with precision.
I unleash a continuous stream of fire, tearing into the second guard's throat.
He drops his weapon, his hands flying up to clutch his ruined neck, choking on his own blood as he collapses onto the hardwood floor.
The third man catches a bullet directly in the temple before his finger can even pull the trigger of his rifle, his body crumpling over a decorative side table in a clatter of shattered porcelain.
But the fourth mercenary dives behind a towering marble column near the entrance, utilizing the architectural structure to shield himself from my barrage.
I unleash a volley of rounds against the stone, chipping away chunks of marble, but the bastard manages to blind-fire around the edge of the pillar.
A muzzle flash illuminates the dimly lit dining room.
Elena cries out, a sudden, pained gasp that paralyzes the air in my lungs.
My vision turns a blinding shade of crimson.
The syndicate, the revenge, the decades of repressed hatred, it all burns away to nothing, replaced by a bottomless, horrifying panic.
I look toward the table. A violent tear rips through the black silk of her mourning dress near her left shoulder, a bright, blossoming stain of red soaking the fabric. The stray bullet clipped her.
A savage, untamed roar tears from my chest. I abandon the safety of my crouched position, fully intending to charge the marble pillar and rip the shooter apart with my bare hands.
Before I can adjust my angle or unleash my wrath, Elena moves.
The Vitiello Don drops her right hand to the dangerous slit running up her thigh, bypassing the empty leather holster the guard patted down at the gates.
Her fingers dive into the concealed lace of her garter, retrieving a secondary weapon, a palm-sized, ceramic derringer, utterly undetectable to standard security sweeps.
She rises from her chair, ignoring the blood dripping down her bare arm. She raises the tiny gun and points the barrel directly at the marble column.
The mercenary leans out from his cover to take another blind shot, exposing the upper half of his chest to the room.
Elena pulls the trigger.
The sharp crack of the ceramic weapon rings out, the high-caliber round hits the mercenary squarely in the throat, severing his carotid artery in a brilliant explosion of red.
The man drops his assault rifle, his eyes bulging in shock as he clutches his neck, stumbling forward before collapsing face-first onto the polished floorboards.
I lower my weapon, my heart thrashing against my ribs, and sprint across the room, completely ignoring the cowering patriarch still trapped at the end of the table. I drop to my knees beside Elena, my hands hovering over the torn silk of her dress, terrified of hurting her further.
"Elena," I rasp with desperation I cannot hide. "Let me see. Show me the wound."
She holsters the smoking ceramic gun back into her garter, her breathing slightly elevated but otherwise incredibly calm.
She turns her left shoulder toward the light of the chandelier, pulling the ruined silk away from the injury.
The bullet grazed the outer curve of her bicep, carving a shallow, bleeding trench through the flesh.
It is a painful injury, and it is bleeding freely, but it did not strike the bone or any major arteries.
She is alive. She is safe.
A profound, staggering relief washes over my frame.
I reach into one of the utility pouches strapped to my thigh, pulling out a sterile compression bandage.
My hands shake as I wrap the white gauze tightly around her arm, applying pressure to stem the bleeding, securing the fabric with a practiced efficiency.
"It burns," Elena hisses softly, her fingers digging into the Kevlar plating on my shoulder as I tie the bandage.
"I know, my queen," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the uninjured skin of her collarbone, needing to taste her pulse to prove she is still breathing. "I have you. The bleeding is already slowing down."
She looks down at me, her dark eyes softening with affection. She lifts her uninjured hand, her manicured fingers brushing the sweat from my brow, silently assuring me that she is unbroken.
Once the bandage is secure, the tender moment dissolves, replaced by the blistering reality of our unfinished business.
I stand up from the floor, my boots crunching over the shattered crystal of Roberto’s wine glass. I retrieve my submachine gun and turn my attention to the head of the table.
Roberto Severato remains trapped in his ornate wooden chair. He looks at the four corpses littering the floor, and then he looks at the woman who just shot his best mercenary in the throat with a ceramic gun.
"You never should have wished for more, old man," I state, staring down into the terrified eyes of my abuser, preparing to collect the final debt.