Chapter 7 - THE MIAMI RETALIATION
(Word count: ~1,530 words)
Anthony Vance didn't understand the man he was threatening.
He thought he was dealing with a retired, soft mafia boss who had surrendered his crown to live a quiet life. He didn't realize that by threatening Clara Moretti, he had awakened the deadliest predator Chicago had ever seen.
"We need to call the police," Clara urged, standing inside my office as I unlocked a heavy reinforced gun safe hidden behind the oak wall.
"The police take twelve minutes to respond to this zip code, Clara," I said calmly, pulling out two tactical submachine guns, spare magazines, and body armor. "Anthony Vance's hit squad will be here in six. In our old world, you don't call the police. You eliminate the threat."
"Bennett, no!" Clara pleaded, grabbing my arm. "You just got out! You just cleared your name! If you kill Anthony Vance, you'll be dragged right back into the blood!"
I stopped, looking down at her. I reached up, gently wiping a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
"I'm not doing this for a syndicate, Clara," I said softly. "I'm doing this for us. I spent my whole life fighting for territory I didn't care about. Today, I'm fighting for the only thing that matters."
I handed her a light Kevlar vest and a small communications earbud. "You are going into the East Wing panic room. It is reinforced with three-inch steel plates and has an independent oxygen line. You stay inside until I personally open the door."
"Bennett, please come with me!" she begged, clutching my shirt. "We can lock ourselves inside together! They can't break through steel!"
"If I hide in the panic room, Anthony will lay siege to this house until he gets heavy explosives," I explained patiently. "The best defense is an aggressive offense. I cut the head off the snake today, or we run for the rest of our lives."
I leaned in, pressing a soft, firm kiss to her lips. It was our first real kiss—intense, desperate, and sweet.
"I'm coming back to you, Clara," I promised against her lips. "I give you my word."
She looked into my eyes, seeing the absolute certainty in them, and finally nodded. "You better. You owe me dinner."
I ushered her into the East Wing panic room, sealed the triple-bolt steel door, and listened as the heavy locks engaged with a solid CLANG.
Now, I was alone in the grand mansion.
I didn't turn on the lights. I let the dim twilight fill the grand halls. I put on my tactical headset, chambered a round into my weapon, and waited near the second-floor balcony overlooking the grand foyer.
At 6:15 PM, three black SUVs blew through the front iron gates, screeching to a halt on the gravel driveway. Eight men in heavy tactical gear spilled out, carrying silenced assault rifles.
Leading them was Anthony Vance—a taller, leaner version of his brother, with cold, sadistic eyes and a scarred jawline.
"Spread out!" Anthony ordered his men in a low rasp as they kicked open the ruined front doors. "Find Hale and the girl! Burn the house when you're done!"
I watched them from the shadows above. My pulse was steady, forty-five beats per minute. I wasn't scared; I was an artist in my natural element.
I reached for my phone, pressing a button on my security app.
CLICK.
The heavy emergency iron shutters on the ground floor slammed shut behind them, sealing the front entrance, locking all eight men inside the dark mansion with me.
The hitmen panicked, spinning around, raising their weapons toward the entrance.
"What the hell?!" one guard shouted.
"It's a trap!" Anthony yelled. "Check the stairs!"
From the dark balcony above, I dropped two flashbang grenades down into the center of the foyer.
BANG! BANG!
Blinding white light and deafening thunder erupted through the room. The hitmen shrieked, clutching their eyes and ears, completely disoriented.
I stepped out from the shadows and opened fire.
Precision shots echoed through the grand hall. Three hitmen dropped before they even regained their vision. I moved down the grand marble staircase like a shadow, firing with lethal, mechanical efficiency.
Within two minutes, seven of Anthony's men were lying silent on the blood-stained marble floor.
Anthony Vance, half-blinded and bleeding from a shrapnel wound on his shoulder, scrambled behind a overturned leather sofa, firing wildly toward the stairs.
"Hale!" Anthony screamed, his voice high and panicked. "You're a demon! You're a damn demon!"
I stepped off the bottom stair, walking calmly across the foyer, my boots crunching on shattered glass.
"You threatened my home, Anthony," I said, my voice echoing through the smoky room. "You threatened Clara."
"She's a Moretti!" Anthony yelled back, reloading his pistol with trembling hands. "She doesn't belong here! Your father destroyed her family!"
"And I built her a new one," I replied flatly.
I stepped around the leather sofa. Anthony raised his gun, but I stepped inside his guard, kicked the weapon from his grip, and slammed him face-first onto the marble floor, pressing my knee heavily into his spine.
I pressed the warm barrel of my sidearm against the back of his neck.
"Please!" Anthony begged, weeping into the floor. "Please, Hale! Don't kill me! I'll leave Chicago! I'll never come back! I'll tell the cartel you're dead!"
I stood over him, my finger resting on the trigger.
For thirty-four years, this was the moment where Don Hale would pull the trigger without hesitation, ending a rival’s life to maintain dominance.
Then, I looked up at the shattered stained-glass window... and thought of Clara sitting in the panic room, waiting for me to come home for dinner.
If I killed Anthony in cold blood, I would stay a monster forever.
Slowly, I lowered my weapon.
I pulled out my phone, dialing Marcus, who was now working as a high-level private security consultant.
"Marcus," I spoke into the phone. "I have Anthony Vance tied up in my foyer along with seven living hitmen. Call the FBI Organized Crime Division. Tell them Don Hale is handing them the entire Vance cartel network on a silver platter."
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Anthony looked up at me in shock. "You're giving me to the feds?!"
"They'll give you thirty years in federal prison, Anthony," I said, looking down at him with cold contempt. "Which is much worse than a bullet. Because every night in your cell, you'll know that a Hale and a Moretti are living happily on the outside while you rot in the dark."
