Chapter 7 - War in the Fog
The grand hall transformed into a slaughterhouse.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the velvet drapes and gold-framed paintings in staccato bursts of orange light. Moretti’s men scrambled for cover behind marble pillars, mahogany tables, and heavy leather sofas, firing blindly toward the upper levels.
Lorenzo moved through the upper gallery like a phantom. He didn't waste ammunition. Every time his shotgun barked, another one of Moretti’s men dropped to the blood-stained marble below.
“Fall back!” a mercenary commander screamed over the chaos. “We’re trapped in the crossfire!”
Silas Moretti was ducked behind a massive marble statue of Apollo near the fireplace, his gold-plated revolver trembling in his grip. His arrogant grin was completely gone, replaced by the wild, wide-eyed terror of a man who realized he had walked straight into a meat grinder.
“Matteo!” Silas roared, pressing his back against the cold marble statue as bullets chipped away at the stone inches from his head. “Where is the secondary team? Matteo, you traitorous bastard!”
“Matteo isn't coming, Silas!”
Lorenzo’s voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere at once, bouncing off the high vaulted ceiling.
Silas looked up, his flashlight beam swinging wildly across the dark balcony. He caught a brief glimpse of Lorenzo—a towering shadow clad in Kevlar, his eyes burning like hot embers in the dark.
Lorenzo vaulted over the carved oak banister, dropping fifteen feet down to the ground floor, landing on his feet with the graceful impact of a panther.
He didn't reload his shotgun. He dropped it, pulling his two heavy handguns, advancing directly through the smoke and flying splinters toward Silas’s position.
Two mercenaries lunged out from behind a pillar to intercept him. Lorenzo didn't even slow his pace. He fired twice—one round through the first man’s throat, two through the second man’s chest. They dropped like stone weights.
Silas panicked. He stepped out from behind the statue, raising his gold revolver with both hands.
BANG!
Silas fired wild. The bullet grazed Lorenzo’s Kevlar vest, knocking him back half a step.
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Lorenzo didn't flinch. He closed the distance in two giant strides, grabbed the barrel of Silas’s revolver, and crushed the old man’s fingers against the steel frame. Silas let out a high-pitched shriek of agony as his gun clattered to the floor.
Lorenzo grabbed Silas by his silver hair, dragging him across the blood-soaked floor until he slammed the rival Don face-first onto the heavy mahogany dining table in the adjacent room.
