Chapter 7 - The Siege of Long Island
The gates of the Long Island estate were ripped off their hinges not by explosives, but by the sheer torque of an armored tactical vehicle driven by men who answered to one name alone: Castellano.
The guards stationed at the front courtyard didn't even have time to raise their rifles before red laser sights appeared on their chests, followed by the soft, deadly thip-thip of suppressed carbines.
Inside the grand mansion, classical music was playing softly over the stereo system. Marco Castellano was lounging in the leather armchair behind Aleandro’s desk, enjoying the view of the Atlantic through the reinforced glass doors, completely unaware that his short-lived reign was about to experience a very abrupt termination.
Crash.
The mahogany double doors of the study blew inward in a cloud of splintered wood and flying brass.
Marco scrambled out of the chair, his hand flying to his holster, but stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing in the doorway was Aleandro. Behind him, Vane and a dozen elite enforcers flooded the room, securing every exit in less than five seconds.
"M-Marco stammered, his face draining of all color. "You... you were supposed to be in Brooklyn. The hit squad said—"
"The hit squad was incompetent," Aleandro interrupted smoothly, walking across the Persian rug with measured, deliberate steps. He didn't draw his weapon. He didn't need to. The sheer aura of lethal dominance radiating from him was enough to make Marco’s knees buckle.
"Cousin," Marco forced a shaky, desperate smile, holding his hands up defensively. "Wait. We can talk about this. The syndicate needs leadership—"
"You tried to kill my daughter," Aleandro said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"I didn't know! I swear I didn't know she was—"
"You knew," Aleandro cut him off, stopping two feet away from him. "You knew Sophia was carrying my child, you helped my father push her out, and when you found out she died, you hunted for her baby just to make sure my bloodline ended with me."
Marco’s eyes darted toward the window, calculating the distance to his dropped pistol on the desk.
It was a fatal mistake.
In a blur of motion, Aleandro closed the distance, grabbed Marco by the throat, and slammed him down onto the massive oak desk, shattering the glass top and sending liquor bottles crashing to the floor.
"You wanted my chair, Marco," Aleandro whispered, pressing his forearm against his cousin's windpipe until Marco’s face turned a bruised, ugly purple. "You wanted my empire. But you took something that belonged to me."
May you like
"Aleandro... please..." Marco gasped, clawing desperately at his arm.
"Tell my father hello when you see him," Aleandro said coldly, before ending it with ruthless, final efficiency.
