Chapter 5 - Blood on the Mahogany
The name Victor hadn't even finished echoing in the air before the sound of shattering glass drifted up from the main floor below.
Shouts. Screams. The sharp, unmistakable pop of a silenced pistol echoing through the brick-and-steel framework of the Crimson Lounge.
Dante slammed the heavy oak door of the mezzanine shut, throwing the deadbolt with a metallic click before drawing his Glock from its shoulder holster. He looked back at Julian, his face carved from granite. “They’re moving fast, Boss. Forty-second floor security feed just went dark. Victor brought a clean crew—professionals from out of town.”
Julian didn't panic. His face hardened into a mask of pure ice, every trace of casual conversation vanishing instantly. He didn't look like a bored billionaire anymore; he looked like a general commanding a desperate defense.
“How many?” Julian asked, his voice sharp as a razor.
“At least six,” Dante replied, checking his magazine. “They bypassed the front bouncers using club staff badges. Someone on the inside sold us out.”
My hand instinctively dropped to my pocket, brushing against the spare bar rag and the edge of my diary. Staff badges. Downstairs, Ryan Mitchell had been working the service bar with me. Carlos had been managing the floor.
“Ryan,” I muttered, the thought flashing through my mind like lightning. “Ryan was down at the service station when—”
“Focus,” Julian interrupted, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. His grip was firm, warm, and impossible to shake off. He pulled me behind the heavy mahogany table, out of the direct line of fire from the reinforced glass windows facing the staircase. “Whoever sold us out is already dead to Victor. Right now, we survive.”
“I’m not hiding,” I said, pulling my wrist free, glaring up at him. “Your cousin murdered my brother. If his men are down there, they’re looking for the exact ledger sitting in your hand right now.”
Julian looked down at the diary, then back at me. A strange, grim smile touched the corner of his mouth—not humor, but a lethal kind of respect.
“You’ve got iron in your spine, Sofia Rossi,” Julian said quietly. “I’ll give you that. Most girls would be hiding under the couch crying for the police.”
“The police are on Victor’s payroll, remember?” I snapped. “You said it yourself.”
“Fair point.” Julian turned to Dante. “Give her the backup piece from the ankle holster.”
Dante’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Boss, are you out of your mind? She’s a bartender!”
“She’s the only person in this room who knows where Victor’s offshore accounts are hidden,” Julian barked. “Arm her.”
Cursing under his breath, Dante crouched down, unclipped a compact Smith & Wesson Shield from his ankle rig, and shoved it across the rug toward me. I didn't hesitate. I snatched the grip, my fingers instinctively fitting around the polymer handle. I had spent two months at a firing range in Indiana after Leo died, learning how to stop shaking long enough to put a hole in paper targets.
Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the mezzanine door.
Bang!
Heavy caliber rounds tore straight through the thick oak panels, splintering wood and sending white-hot splinters flying across the room. A second shot followed immediately, shattering the brass deadbolt into twisted metal.
“They’re through the door!” Dante roared, raising his Glock and firing three rapid rounds through the upper panels of the splintered wood.
A muffled groan echoed from the hallway outside, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
“Suppressing fire!” Julian ordered, drawing his own weapon—a custom SIG Sauer P226—and stepping alongside Dante.
The mezzanine erupted into a deafening roar of gunfire. Smoke filled the warm air, stinging my eyes and smelling sharply of cordite and burnt gunpowder. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark velvet drapes like angry strobe lights.
Through the haze, the door burst entirely off its hinges. Two men in black tactical gear rushed through the threshold, weapons raised.
Dante caught the first one in the chest, sending him crashing backward into the wall display of vintage bourbon bottles, shattering crystal and drowning the floor in amber liquor.
The second man adjusted his aim toward Julian, his finger tightening on the trigger of an automatic submachine gun.
My heart stopped. Without thinking, I raised the Smith & Wesson, sighted down the slide, and squeezed the trigger.
Crack.
The recoil kicked hard against my palm, jarring my wrist. The bullet caught the tactical intruder square in the shoulder, spinning him off balance just enough for Julian to pivot and put a clean, decisive round through his vest.
The man collapsed to the floor, motionless.
Silence fell over the mezzanine, broken only by the hiss of a ruptured fire sprinkler and the distant, muffled thumping of the bass downstairs.
May you like
Julian lowered his weapon, the barrel still smoking, and turned his head slowly to look at me.
“Like I said,” Julian murmured over the sound of dripping water, a dark intensity in his eyes. “Iron in your spine.”
