Chapter 5 - The Silent Explosion
The heavy oak doors didn't open; they blew inward with a deafening CRACK.
It wasn't a bomb. It was a high-pressure hydraulic breach charge—the kind used by elite counter-terrorism units to blow iron doors off their hinges in three milliseconds.
A cloud of white plaster dust and splintered mahogany erupted into the lounge.
Before the smoke could clear, three heavy, black-clad figures burst through the doorway, their silenced submachine guns chattering in quick, terrifying bursts: ZIP-ZIP-ZIP-ZIP.
Vince’s head snapped back as two rounds tore through his neck. He hit the carpet before his gun could strike the floor.
The two men near the pool table didn't even have time to clear their holsters. They collapsed like empty sacks over the felt, their blood staining the ivory billiard balls crimson.
Marco dropped his glass. The crystal shattered on the granite hearth. He scrambled backward, his hands slipping in the spilled whiskey, his eyes wide with absolute, blind panic.
"Dominic! No! Wait!" Marco shrieked, backing into the corner beside the fireplace.
Brent Callahan stepped through the smoke, holding a heavy tactical shotgun, his face impassive and cold as gray iron. Behind him stood two junior guards who had remained loyal to the main estate line.
"The perimeter is clear, Dominic," Brent said, his voice flat. "Vince’s four men outside have been secured in the wine cellars."
Dominic stepped over Vince’s body, his silk robe dragging slightly through the dark puddle on the rug. He walked until he was standing directly over his cousin.
Marco lay on his back, shaking violently, his expensive suit covered in plaster dust and spilled alcohol.
"You thought I was sleeping, Marco," Dominic said softly, looking down at him. "You thought because I lay in that room for eleven days that I was waiting to die."
"Dom... please... we’re blood!" Marco sobbed, reaching up with trembling hands. "Hector was my uncle! Julian was my brother! You can't do this!"
"Julian died because his car was tampered with in Montreal," Dominic said, his gray eyes fixing on Marco’s face with terrifying precision. "Was that you too, Marco?"
"No! I swear to God, no!" Marco cried out. "That was the Canadians! That was the West End Gang!"
Dominic looked at Brent. "Take him down to the boathouse. Don't touch him until I get there. And tell Nora to bring the Land Cruiser to the front entrance."
Brent nodded once. "And Vince’s body?"
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"Burn the room," Dominic said simply. "Tell the police it was a faulty electrical wire near the hearth. They won't ask questions if the check clears by eight AM."
Dominic turned and walked out of the smoking ruined doorway, heading toward the main foyer.
