Chapter 7 - The Attack on the West Side
The rat-tat-tat of a submachine gun echoed off the corrugated metal walls like thunder, followed instantly by the sharp crunch of breaking glass and the muffled screams of guards outside in the rain.
Niko’s reaction was instantaneous.
He didn't freeze. He didn't look surprised. In less than half a second, his left arm wrapped around Emma’s waist, lifting her completely off her feet, and slammed her down behind the thick, solid-oak work table just as a spray of 9mm bullets punched through the heavy steel side door.
SPARK! SPARK! SPARK!
The metal door crumpled inward under the hail of lead. Glass from the gantry windows showered down onto the concrete floor like silver hail.
Emma gasped, her hands flying to her head, her body pressed flat against the concrete beneath the wooden table, the smell of burnt gunpowder instantly replacing the scent of her chicken soup.
Niko was already on his knees beside her.
He pulled a dark, heavy SIG Sauer P226 pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his leather jacket, racked the slide with a sharp clack, and held it steady. His face was no longer the face of the man who had eaten short ribs at LeRoux Door. It was the face of a war commander—cold, merciless, and completely in control.
“Stay down,” Niko commanded, his voice dropping into an absolute register of authority. “Do not move from behind this oak wood. Do you hear me, Emma?”
Emma nodded frantically, her teeth chattering with sudden adrenaline. “N-Niko—!”
“Stay flat!”
The steel door was kicked wide open.
Three men in dark raincoats stepped into the warehouse, their weapons raised, searching the dim space under the yellow lights. Behind them, standing in the rain on the threshold, was Carmine Russo, holding a heavy revolver, his face twisted in desperate, maniacal rage.
“ROSETTI!” Carmine screamed into the echoing warehouse. “I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE! YOU THINK YOU CAN STRIP ME OF MY LIFE? YOU THINK YOU CAN GIVE MY DOCKS TO PAULIE?”
Niko didn't answer. He didn't give away his position with words.
He leaned around the thick leg of the oak table, brought the front sight of his pistol aligned with the chest of the first gunman, and squeezed the trigger twice.
BANG! BANG!
The heavy 9mm rounds hit the first gunman in the center of his chest, throwing him backward onto the wet concrete.
The other two gunmen panicked, spraying automatic fire across the work table.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Wood splinters exploded from the top of the oak table, showering over Emma’s back. She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands covering her ears, praying silently for Leo back in their small apartment.
Niko didn't flinch as wood chips stung his cheek. He shifted his position, rolling smoothly onto his right hip, fired three rounds into the second gunman’s shoulder and neck, then ducked back as the third gunman emptied his magazine into the concrete wall behind them.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
The third gunman’s weapon went empty.
Before the man could reload, Marco burst through the side entrance behind Carmine, two surviving Rosetti guards right behind him.
Marco tackled Carmine to the wet pavement outside, while the two guards opened fire on the remaining gunman inside the bay.
In less than forty seconds, the warehouse went dead silent.
The only sound remaining was the steady drip... drip... drip of rain falling through the bullet holes in the roof and the heavy, ragged breathing of Niko Rosetti.
Niko stayed low, his weapon held at the ready, his eyes scanning the bodies on the floor until Marco called out from the doorway.
“CLEAR! Boss, it’s clear! Carmine is down!”
Niko engaged the safety on his pistol, tucked it back into his shoulder holster, and turned instantly to the woman beneath the table.
“Emma,” Niko said, his hands reaching down to grab her arms. “Emma, look at me. Are you hit? Are you bleeding?”
Emma slowly opened her eyes. Her hands were shaking violently, her green coat covered in wood dust and broken glass, but her skin was unbroken.
She looked at Niko—at the small smudge of gunpowder on his cheek, at the terrifying dark weapon tucked beneath his leather jacket, and at the two dead men lying twenty feet away on the concrete floor.
The reality of who Niko Rosetti was—the absolute, bloody truth of his world—was no longer a mystery or a whisper. It was lying on the floor in front of her.
“I’m... I’m okay,” Emma whispered, her voice barely audible.
Niko lifted her gently out from behind the table, standing her up on her feet. He kept his hands on her shoulders, supporting her weight as her knees wobbled.
“Marco!” Niko roared toward the doorway.
Marco rushed inside, his face pale, his gun still in his hand. “Boss! Are you alright?”
“Get the SUV,” Niko commanded, his voice shaking with a rare, terrifying fury. “Get her out of here now. Take her to the safe house in Oak Brook. I want four men on the perimeter until I get there.”
“No,” Emma said suddenly.
Niko stopped, looking at her in disbelief. “Emma, you are going to the safe house.”
“My son is at my apartment with my sister!” Emma said, her voice recovering its strength, her hazel eyes firing back at him through the shock. “I am not going to some safe house while my eight-year-old is on 31st Street!”
Niko stared at her. Even after being shot at with submachine guns, even after watching two men die in front of her, her first instinct was not her own safety; it was her child.
Niko took a slow, deep breath, wiping the wood dust from her green collar with his hand.
“Marco,” Niko said, his tone softening slightly. “Go to her apartment. Bring her son and her sister to the Oak Brook estate under full escort. Do it now.”
“Yes, boss,” Marco said, turning and sprinting toward the cars outside.
Niko looked at Emma, his eyes filled with a profound, heavy regret.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” Niko whispered softly. “I brought this to your door.”
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Emma looked at the red Tupperware container on the table—the top had been blown off by a stray bullet, the soup spilled across the wood—and then looked at Niko’s face.
“You didn't bring this to my door, Niko,” she said, her voice steadying. “They came to yours. Now let’s go get my son.”
