Chapter 8 - Breaking the Crown
Dante walked slowly across the living room, his boots leaving dark wet trails on the expensive flooring. He stopped five feet from Salvatore’s chair, the muzzle of his Sig Sauer pointed lazily at the floor.
"You made a mistake, Vincent," Dante said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You sent a video message threatening my house."
"It's business, boy," Vincent scoffed, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "You married a Valenti. You inherited their enemies. What did you expect? Flowers and champagne?"
"I expected you to know the rules," Dante replied, stepping closer. "You stay in your territory, I stay in mine. But you brought a child into this—you threatened my wife."
"She’s a hostage with a ring on her finger," Vincent spat, finally standing up from his chair, his face twisting with ugly rage. "You think you're untouchable, Dante? You think because you bought off a few federal judges—"
Dante didn't let him finish. In a blur of motion, he raised the pistol and fired a single shot directly into the wooden floorboards an inch from Vincent’s Italian leather shoes.
The older man jumped back, his face draining of all color.
"Federal judges have nothing to do with this," Dante whispered, closing the distance until the barrel of his gun was pressed firmly against the center of Vincent’s chest. "This is personal. And right now, your life is worth less than the dirt on my boots."
Before Vincent could plead, before he could reach for the concealed revolver tucked into his waistband, Marcus stepped into the room, holding a ringing secure phone.
"Boss," Marcus interrupted, holding the device out. "It’s secure line from the estate. You need to take this."
Dante kept his gun pressed against Salvatore’s chest, his eyes locked on the older boss with unyielding malice. With his left hand, he snatched the phone from Marcus.
"Talk," Dante commanded into the receiver.
"Dante," came the panicked, breathless voice of a young guard stationed at the Moretti estate gates. "We've got a situation. A black van bypassed the secondary perimeter while the strike team was out. They broke into the east wing. They’ve... they’ve taken Mrs. Moretti."
The blood drained from Dante’s face so fast it looked like a physical blow. The air in the room vanished.
"What did you say?" Dante’s voice dropped into a register so dark, so chillingly lethal, that even Marcus took an involuntary step back.
"They took her, boss," the guard stammered. "Left a note on her bed. If you want her alive, you drop all claims to the northern docks and meet them at the abandoned railyard by midnight alone."
Dante slowly lowered the phone.
Vincent Salvatore, realizing what had just happened, let out a harsh, barking laugh, even with a gun pointed at his chest. "Looks like my boys were busier than I thought, Dante. You lose."
Dante looked down at Salvatore. The calm, calculating capo was gone. In his place stood a monster unleashed.
With brutal, terrifying speed, Dante reversed the pistol in his hand and smashed the heavy metal grip directly across the side of Vincent’s head. Salvatore collapsed onto the Persian rug, unconscious, blood pooling from a deep gash on his temple.
"Marcus," Dante snarled, turning toward his enforcer as he holstered his weapon.
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"Boss?"
"Gather every available man. Not a single car leaves the estate without my word. We are burning that railyard to the ground. And anyone standing in my way dies."
