Chapter 7 - Crossfire
“Put the gun down, Marco,” Dante purred, his eyes fixed on us with cold amusement. “We both know you’re too slow to clear leather before I put a hollow-point right through your expensive Italian jacket.”
Marco’s jaw tightened, his finger resting lightly on the trigger of his Glock. “You’re dead, Dante. Vincent knows about the port skimming. He’s already frozen your Swiss accounts.”
“Let him freeze them,” Dante laughed softly, though a flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes. “By sunrise, Vincent Moretti will be answering questions from federal investigators about why his estate was used as a stash house for cartel narcotics. And these two sweet little domestic witnesses will be found in a burning car at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
My blood ran cold. A stash house. That was the real game. They weren't just trying to get rid of me; they were framing Vincent from the inside out.
“You’re a traitor, Dante,” I spat out, stepping out from behind Marco despite his sharp warning hiss. “You sold out your own syndicate. You sold out my brother. And now you’re trying to burn everything down because you got caught.”
Dante’s smile vanished, replaced by a mask of pure venom. “Shut up, you little rat. You should have stayed in the kitchen with your mop.”
He shifted the barrel of his pistol from Marco toward my chest.
In that fraction of a second, instinct took over. Marco didn't try to outdraw him—instead, he lunged sideways, tackling Dante hard around the waist just as the silenced pistol barked twice.
Puff. Puff.
The bullets chewed into the dirt floor inches from my boots.
Dante roared with rage, smashing the butt of his gun against the side of Marco’s head. Marco grunted, staggering backward and crashing into a heavy ceramic planter, sending shards of clay and wet soil flying everywhere.
Dante swung around, his eyes locking onto me with murderous intent. He raised the pistol, his finger tightening on the trigger.
I braced for impact, closing my eyes.
CRASH.
The glass double doors of the greenhouse exploded inward in a storm of glittering shards.
A barrage of heavy gunfire tore through the night air. Bullets ripped through the overhead glass panes, raining down like lethal hail.
Through the smoke and swirling dust, a massive silhouette strode into the greenhouse, holding a submachine gun with terrifying, absolute authority.
Vincent Moretti.
His face was a mask of cold, unmitigated rage—the look of a man who had just found someone trying to steal everything he owned.
“Dante,” Vincent’s voice boomed over the ringing silence of the gunfire, shaking the very earth beneath our feet.
Dante spun around, his face draining of all color. He tried to raise his weapon toward Vincent, but he was half a second too late.
Bang.
May you like
A single shot rang out. Dante dropped his pistol, screamed as a bullet tore clean through his right shoulder, and collapsed hard onto the damp greenhouse floor, clutching his arm in agony.
Silence descended instantly, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of the men and the patter of falling glass shards.
