Chapter 4 - The Betrayal of the Syndicate
Dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling as the shockwave rattled the study’s glass windows.
“Downstairs!” Matteo yelled, drawing his second weapon.
Roman kept his arm locked firmly around Elena’s waist, steering her out of the study and back onto the second-floor gallery.
Below them, the grand ballroom was in absolute chaos.
The heavy double oak doors at the main entrance had been blown off their hinges by breaching charges. Thick, grey smoke rolled across the marble floor, illuminated by the flashing red emergency lights.
Through the smoke stepped Victor Solerno.
He wore his signature charcoal suit, an unlit cigar held loosely between his teeth, and a heavy submachine gun cradled in his arms. Behind him strode twelve mercenary soldiers clad in black tactical gear, armed with assault rifles.
Beside Victor walked Captain Falcone and Captain Bruno—two of Roman’s six regional syndicate bosses.
Roman’s jaw set into stone. Elena had been right. Victor hadn't acted alone; he had severed the head of the Duca family from within.
“Roman!” Victor’s booming voice echoed up toward the vaulted ceiling, rich with artificial warmth and ruthless triumph. “Come out, my boy! It’s over! There’s no need for any more blood to be spilled tonight!”
Roman stepped up to the brass balustrade of the balcony, standing in full view of the armed men below, holding Elena firmly behind his back.
“Victor,” Roman said, his voice carrying clearly over the coughing of the trapped guests. “I gave you twenty years of my loyalty. I called you father.”
Victor stopped near the shattered chandelier, looking up with a cold, hollow smile. “And I raised you well, Roman. You built this empire into something magnificent. But you’ve grown soft. You spend your time managing shipping ports and playing house with a bankrupt girl instead of expanding our territory into Chicago.”
“So you decided to sell my family out?” Roman sneered, his grip tightening on his pistol.
“I decided to preserve our legacy!” Victor corrected, his eyes flashing with sudden rage. “Your father would have done the same if he saw you stagnating! I forged this family, Roman! Not you! It’s time the crown returned to the man who actually built it!”
Falcone stepped forward, raising his rifle toward the balcony. “Give it up, Roman! We have the building surrounded! Your guards outside are already dead!”
Elena leaned close to Roman’s ear, her voice surprisingly steady despite the horror below. “The east stairwell. It leads to the underground wine cellar and the private loading dock. The heavy steel door requires my father’s old security code—Victor doesn't know it.”
Roman glanced sideways at her, a fierce surge of pride warming his blood. She wasn't just surviving; she was tactical.
“Matteo,” Roman murmured without turning his head. “Take two men and clear the east stairwell. We move on my mark.”
“Boss, I’m staying with you,” Matteo insisted.
“That’s an order, Matteo! Get the exit clear!”
Matteo gritted his teeth, nodded, and slipped away into the shadows of the hallway with two enforcers.
Roman looked down at Victor again. “You made one fatal mistake tonight, Victor.”
Victor raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh? And what’s that, my boy?”
“You involved my wife.”
Before Victor could respond, Roman lifted his pistol and fired three rapid shots straight down into the smoke.
The first bullet struck Captain Falcone directly in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second shattered the tactical light on the lead mercenary’s rifle.
“Kill them!” Victor roared, diving behind a overturned marble bar as his mercenaries opened fire.
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A hail of high-caliber bullets shredded the plaster and brass railings of the second-floor balcony. Plaster dust exploded into the air, blinding the gallery.
Roman grabbed Elena, lifting her off her feet, and sprinted down the darkened corridor toward the east stairwell.
