27. Elena #2
Panic detonates inside the conference room. The bosses exchange frantic, horrified glances, the illusion of their untouchable power shattering right before their eyes.
"This is extortion!" Rossi yells, slamming his folder shut.
"This is an education," I correct him, my dark eyes blazing with triumph. "You wanted to enforce the rules of the syndicate. The primary rule is that the strongest faction dictates the terms. We hold your money, we hold your secrets, and we hold the shipping lanes. The vote is a formality."
Niccolò watches the carnage with a satisfied, predatory smirk. "Call the vote, Marchesi. We have a dinner reservation to get to."
Marchesi looks like a man swallowing broken glass. He stares at the blackmail file, his jaw working furiously as he weighs his limited options. He realizes he has been outplayed, outmaneuvered by a woman and a corporate attorney who weaponized the very system he believed protected him.
"All in favor of recognizing Elena Vitiello as the Don of Palermo, and ratifying the integration of the Sicilian ports with the Severato syndicate," Marchesi chokes out, his voice hoarse and defeated.
He raises a trembling hand.
One by one, the other bosses follow suit. Rossi raises his hand. The lieutenants raise theirs. The unanimous vote sweeps around the circular table, a binding, indisputable surrender of the old-guard hierarchy to the new era.
I won.
The exhilarating rush of victory floods my veins. I look up at Enzo, sharing a fraction of a second of celebration with the man who made this possible. We dismantled the Commission without firing a single bullet.
"The motion passes," Marchesi mutters, refusing to meet my eye.
"Excellent," Niccolò says, buttoning his suit jacket and preparing to stand. "I am glad we could reach a civilized concen—"
A catastrophic, deafening explosion obliterates the remainder of his sentence.
The concussive force punches through the subterranean conference room with a violence that defies comprehension.
The reinforced ceiling groans, a massive shockwave rocking the foundation of the hotel.
The opulent lighting fixtures shatter instantly, plunging the room into a frantic, flashing darkness illuminated only by the emergency strobe lights.
"Get down!" Enzo roars, his hands slamming onto my shoulders before my brain can even process the blast.
He shoves me forcefully out of the leather chair, tackling me to the imported carpet just as a second explosion detonates near the primary elevator bank.
The mahogany doors are blown entirely off their hinges, a wave of smoke, fire, and pulverized drywall tearing across the room.
Shards of wood and glass rain down upon the table, tearing into the flesh of the men who were too slow to react.
I hit the floor hard, the air knocked from my lungs. Enzo’s massive frame covers mine instantly, shielding my body from the flying shrapnel with his own.
"What the fuck was that?" Alessio shouts over the ringing in our ears, overturning the massive mahogany table to create a makeshift barricade.
"The Russians," Niccolò snarls, drawing his customized firearm as he ducks behind the wood.
The new Volkov Pakhan. Niccolò executed the previous leader, fracturing the Bratva into a desperate, rabid pack of dogs.
We assumed taking their money would stall their offensive.
We failed to account for a suicidal ambition.
The new Pakhan does not care about the offshore accounts or the political fallout.
He is furious at being cut out of the international ports, and he brought an army to exact a bloody revenge.
Through the billowing gray smoke and the blinding flashes of the emergency strobes, a dozen figures dressed in tactical gear pour through the breached doorway. They carry automatic assault rifles, firing indiscriminately into the conference room. It is a slaughterhouse.
Don Marchesi takes a burst of rounds to the chest before he can even stand up, his body collapsing over his chair in a spray of crimson.
Rossi screams as a bullet shatters his knee, crawling frantically across the carpet in a pathetic bid for survival.
The civilized tribunal dissolves instantly into a chaotic, blinding crossfire.
"Stay behind the table!" Enzo orders me, rolling off my body to draw his weapon. His ice-blue eyes burn with homicidal fire. "Do not move, Elena!"
I pull my knees to my chest, reaching for the gun behind my jacket. I am not a helpless hostage. I survived the bombing at my uncle's vineyard, and I will survive this.
Enzo pops up from behind the overturned mahogany table, his weapon tracking the approaching mercenaries.
He fires three rapid shots, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.
A Russian soldier drops near the doorway, a bullet lodged between his eyes.
Alessio provides suppressive fire, his customized pistol spitting a continuous stream of bullets that forces the attackers to seek cover behind the rubble.
"They have us pinned!" Niccolò yells, ejecting a spent magazine and slamming a fresh one into his grip. "We need to push through the service corridor!"