Chapter 8 - The Wrath of the Don
Dominic drove the black Suburban through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Westchester estate at ninety miles per hour.
The front steel bumper sheared the heavy hinges like wet cardboard, sending the ornate metal spinning into the rain.
Matteo sat in the passenger seat, his fingers wrapped tight around a short-barreled shotgun.
Behind them, two more tactical SUVs tore through the shredded driveway, their tires throwing wet gravel fifty feet into the air.
Dominic did not wait for his vehicle to come to a complete halt before kicking the driver door open.
He hit the wet pavement running, an assault rifle tucked firmly into his shoulder.
His eyes were bloodshot, his face blackened by soot, and his veins bulging with pure, unadulterated madness.
A sentry emerged from the boxwood hedges, raising a rifle to challenge the convoy.
Dominic fired three precise rounds without breaking his forward momentum.
The sentry dropped into the muddy grass before his weapon could clear his hip.
"Clear the lower level!" Dominic roared to the six soldiers pouring out of the rear vehicles behind him.
"Matteo, take the kitchen entrance!"
"Dominic, wait for backup!" Matteo yelled, running through the rain.
"I am not waiting for anything!" Dominic screamed back, charging up the stone steps of the front veranda.
He kicked the heavy oak front door with such ferocious power that the brass deadbolt shattered the doorframe.
The foyer smelled of fresh cordite and spent gunpowder.
Dominic’s heart seized with sheer, primal terror.
He recognized the sharp, sweet smell of high-velocity ammunition.
He bounded up the grand staircase four steps at a time, disregarding every tactical precaution he had ever learned.
A shooter stepped out of the second-floor gallery, attempting to reload his submachine gun.
Dominic did not even raise his rifle; he collided with the man like a charging freight train.
They crashed through the balustrade onto the marble floor of the gallery.
Dominic pinned the man’s chest with his heavy boot and fired two rounds point-blank into his chest.
He stepped over the dying soldier and sprinted toward Donna Elena’s master suite.
The double doors hung splintered from their brass hinges.
Inside the room, the scene was illuminated by the flickering glow of three dying candles on the mantelpiece.
Nurse Clara was cowering in the corner, sobbing hysterically with her hands clasped over her ears.
Geno was standing at the edge of the bed, his weapon raised, his eyes locked onto the carnage before him.
Dominic leveled his rifle directly at the back of Geno’s skull.
"Drop it," Dominic whispered, a sound so terrifyingly low it froze the air inside the room.
Geno froze, his bloody left arm hanging useless at his side.
He turned his head slowly, looking into the hollow, murderous eyes of his Don.
"Dominic..." Geno choked out, his mouth trembling.
"Salvatore gave the order... he said it was the only way to save the family..."
Dominic did not allow him to finish the sentence.
He closed the distance in two strides, swung the heavy butt of the rifle, and struck Geno across the temple with bone-shattering force.
Geno collapsed onto the Persian carpet, coughing blood and broken teeth.
Dominic dropped his rifle onto the floorboards, knelt over the fallen lieutenant, and grabbed him by the throat with both hands.
"Who paid you?" Dominic snarled, his thumbs pressing into Geno’s windpipe until the cartilage groaned.
"Your... uncle..." Geno wheezed, his eyes bulging with terror.
"Salvatore... took... the trust... funds... months ago..."
Dominic slammed Geno’s skull against the hardwood floor three times until the man went completely limp.
Dominic stood up, his chest heaving, his hands drenched in the traitor’s blood.
Then he turned around to face the bed.
His breath caught in his throat, and the entire universe seemed to collapse into a bottomless, freezing void.
A body lay sprawled across the four-poster mattress, draped protectively over his mother’s form.
The back of the gray wool sweater was torn to shreds, drenched in dark, arterial crimson.
Five distinct, ragged bullet holes wept blood into the ruined lace duvet.
Dominic took a single, trembling step forward, his boots sliding against the slick crimson floorboards.
"Mother?" Dominic whispered, his voice cracking like that of a terrified child.
The small form beneath the bloodied body shifted slightly.
Donna Elena looked out from beneath the tangled hair of the woman protecting her.
Donna Elena’s face was untouched, though she was crying so hard her frail chest shook uncontrollably.
"Dominic..." Donna Elena wept, her frail hand reaching up through the blood to touch the back of the woman’s head.
Dominic stared down at the pale, delicate hand hanging lifeless over the side of the bed.
On the third finger of that hand, beneath smears of soot and dried blood, was the faint, pale indentation of a wedding band.
May you like
A ring he had made her leave on the vanity table four hours ago.
It was Madeline.
