Chapter 6 - The Siege of Villa Russo
The thunder of automatic gunfire shattered the quiet night as Victor Moretti’s mercenaries pushed through the estate gardens. Glass shattered along the ground-floor conservatory, and the heavy booms of tactical breacher charges echoed up the grand stairwell.
"Frank!" Dominic yelled over the blare of the alarm system. "Take six men and secure the panic room door from the inside! Do not open it under any circumstances until the estate is clear!"
"Dominic, no!" Isabelle cried out, grabbing his arm in terror. "Don't go down there alone!"
"I'm not alone, Isabelle," Dominic said, drawing a heavy black pistol from his shoulder holster. "This is my house. And nobody attacks my family in my house."
He pulled her into a brief, fierce embrace before stepping out of the panic room. The heavy steel door sealed shut behind him with a resonant, mechanical thud.
Dominic sprinted down the fourth-floor corridor, his tactical training taking over. He reached the master security station, where three of his top lieutenants were frantically monitoring the camera feeds and issuing orders over encrypted radios.
"Status!" Dominic barked.
"They brought thirty men, Boss!" Lieutenant Marco reported, racking the slide of an assault rifle. "They cut the main power lines, but our backup generators picked up instantly. They’re trying to reach the basement to free Christopher!"
"They want Christopher because he has the offshore account keys for the entire Midwest distribution network," Dominic realized instantly. "If Moretti gets those keys, he controls the whole region."
"What are your orders, Boss?" Marco asked.
Dominic’s dark eyes burned with a lethal, absolute fury. "We cut them off at the grand foyer. No one leaves this house alive."
Dominic led his men down the rear service staircase, flanking Moretti’s strike team as they poured into the central marble atrium.
The foyer was transformed into a warzone. Muzzle flashes illuminated the grand chandeliers, casting frantic, jumping shadows across the oil paintings of the Russo ancestors. Bullets tore through silk wallpaper and shattered priceless marble statues, turning the magnificent estate into a hall of splintered wood and flying stone.
Dominic leaned around a thick marble pillar, acquiring his targets with cold, terrifying precision. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three of Moretti’s lead breachers fell instantly, their tactical gear failing against Dominic’s high-caliber rounds.
"Russo!" a voice boomed from the upper mezzanine.
Dominic looked up through the smoke to see Victor Moretti himself—a heavy-set, scarred man in his fifties, wearing a tactical vest over his tailored suit, holding a high-powered carbine rifle.
"Give us Christopher and the kid, Dominic!" Moretti roared, firing a burst of bullets that chipped the marble pillar near Dominic’s head. "New York runs this territory now! Your father's legacy dies tonight!"
"My father's legacy built this city, Moretti!" Dominic shouted back, his voice echoing over the roar of gunfire. "And you're standing in my living room!"
Dominic signaled to Marco, who threw a flashbang grenade across the polished floor.
A blinding burst of white light and a deafening explosion rocked the atrium. Moretti’s men staggered, disoriented by the concussive force.
Dominic moved like a phantom through the smoke. He cleared the floor with ruthless efficiency, his weapon barking in rhythm with his heavy footsteps. Within three minutes, twenty of Moretti’s mercenaries lay motionless on the marble floor.
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Moretti, panicked and bleeding from a shrapnel wound to his arm, retreated down the eastern corridor toward the basement stairs, desperate to retrieve Christopher and escape through the subterranean utility tunnels.
Dominic pursued him alone, his dark eyes locked on his target like a hunting hound tracking blood.
