Chapter 6 - BLOOD AND CONSEQUENCES
Julian Vance’s eyes went wild with rage. “I’ll kill you first, Duca!”
He raised the nickel-plated revolver, but before his finger could complete the trigger pull, a crack echoed through the courtyard—not from Lorenzo’s gun, but from the high wall above the archway.
A high-caliber sniper round tore through Vance’s right shoulder, shattering the bone. The revolver clattered uselessly onto the wet flagstones. Vance let out a high-pitched, gurgling shriek, collapsing onto his knees in the mud, clutching his ruined shoulder as blood gushed through his fingers.
Marco dropped down from the wall, landing silently on his feet, holding a suppressed marksman rifle. “Perimeter is clear, boss. Four dead, two captured. Vance was the last one moving.”
Lorenzo walked forward, stopping right in front of the kneeling man. He used the toe of his boot to kick the nickel-plated revolver into the fountain basin.
“Please...” Vance gasped, his face slick with rain and sweat, pale from shock. “Please, Duca... Don't kill me... Don't kill me... Carmine Valenti will pay you... Whatever you want... Money, territory...”
Lorenzo looked down at him with cold, absolute disgust. This was the man who had terrified Elena for three years. This was the man who had forced a mother and her three-year-old child to live in hiding, jumping at every shadow in the night.
“Don Carmine Valenti,” Lorenzo said, pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing a number, “is currently on speaker.”
A raspy, elderly voice echoed from the phone speaker, cutting through the sound of the falling rain. “Lorenzo?”
“Don Carmine,” Lorenzo spoke smoothly. “I have one of your financial assets sitting in my courtyard. He broke my perimeter at three in the morning with seven armed men. He attempted to execute a kidnapping on my grounds.”
Silence hung on the line for three agonizing seconds. When Carmine Valenti spoke again, his tone was dry, weary, and completely devoid of warmth.
“Julian Vance acted without my authorization, Lorenzo. He was told to leave the matter alone.”
“He is bleeding on my stone, Carmine,” Lorenzo said flatly. “What is his value to you?”
“He has none,” the old Don replied instantly. “A man who lets his personal obsessions ruin commercial agreements is a liability. Do what you must with Vance. But let the remaining survivors go to show there is no war between our houses.”
“Agreed,” Lorenzo said, disconnecting the call.
Vance looked up, his eyes filled with pure, unadulterated terror as he realized his boss had just signed his death warrant. “No... no! Carmine! Duca, please!”
Lorenzo didn't raise his gun. He looked at Marco.
“Take him to the clinic in Verona,” Lorenzo commanded. “Have the doctor patch his shoulder so he doesn't bleed out. Then put him on a cargo ship to South America. Stripped of his money, his name, and his passport. If he ever returns to Europe, kill him.”
Vance wept, dragging himself backwards in the mud as Marco grabbed him by his collar and dragged him away.
Lorenzo stood alone in the rain for a long moment. He looked down at his clothes—soaked, smelling of gunpowder and blood. He wiped a drop of rain from his jaw, turned around, and walked back toward the villa.
By 5:00 AM, the courtyard had been washed clean of blood, the bodies removed, and the rain had softened into a gentle, grey mist over the hills.
Lorenzo stood in the library, having changed into a clean white linen shirt and trousers. He tapped the code into the hidden keypad behind the law books.
The heavy steel door swung open with a soft hiss of hydraulic pressure.
Elena was sitting on a leather bench inside, holding Mia tightly in her arms. Barnaby was curled up at her feet. As the door opened, Elena looked up, her eyes wide, waiting for the verdict.
Lorenzo stepped into the doorway.
“It is over,” he said.
Elena swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “Julian...?”
“Julian will never bother you again,” Lorenzo said flatly. “He is leaving the country today. Permanently.”
Elena buried her face in her hands, her whole body shaking as four years of suffocating, paralyzing fear dissolved into overwhelming, cathartic tears.
Mia looked over her mother’s shoulder. She saw Lorenzo standing in the warm light of the library. She wriggled out of her mother’s lap, walked over to Lorenzo, and grabbed his pinky finger with her small hand.
“Did you hit the bad men?” she asked.
“They went away,” Lorenzo said, looking down at her small fingers wrapped around his.
“Did you save Barnaby?”
“The dog is fine,” Lorenzo said, letting out a quiet, tired sigh.
Mia tugged on his pinky finger, pulling him toward the hallway. “Come on. It’s breakfast time.”
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Lorenzo looked at Elena, who was wiping her eyes, offering him a look of such profound, tearful gratitude that it made his chest feel strangely tight.
For the first time in his life, Lorenzo Duca allowed himself to be led by a three-year-old child.
