Chapter 6 - The Standoff at the Iron Gate
Dominic did not hesitate for even a single heartbeat before delivering his orders.
He looked directly at Nancy, who stood frozen near the sideboard with a silver coffeepot in her hands.
“Take Megan and the child to the west wing panic room immediately,” Dominic commanded, his voice cold and devoid of fear.
Megan stood up so fast that her wooden chair scraped violently against the polished floorboards.
She scooped Leo into her arms, pressing the boy’s head against her shoulder as his small fingers tangled in her collar.
“Dominic, what is happening out there?” Megan demanded, using his first name without even realizing it.
Dominic’s dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that commanded total, unquestioning obedience.
“A territorial vulture has smelled blood, and he wants to see if the rumors about my funeral are true,” Dominic replied in a low rumble.
“I am not hiding like a prisoner in a broom closet,” Megan said, her voice shaking with defensive anger.
“You are not hiding for your sake, Megan; you are keeping your son out of crosshairs,” Dominic said evenly.
The mention of Leo cut through her stubborn pride like a scalpel through silk.
Megan looked down at her eighteen-month-old child, whose blue eyes were wide with innocent confusion.
She swallowed the hard lump of pride in her throat and gave Dominic a single, resolute nod.
“Nancy, lock the security deadbolts behind them and do not open the steel doors for anyone except me or Marcus,” Dominic ordered.
Nancy hurried forward, ushering Megan through the concealed oak-paneled door that led to the fortified safe room.
Once the heavy latch clicked shut, Dominic turned his wheelchair toward the front foyer where his armed security team assembled.
Marcus stood near the double front doors, checking the magazine of his sidearm before sliding it back into his shoulder holster.
“Gallo brought six bodyguards, all heavily armed and standing outside their vehicles near the front checkpoint,” Marcus reported grimly.
“Open the perimeter gates and allow his vehicle to approach the inner security courtyard,” Dominic instructed coldly.
Marcus frowned, clearly shocked by the command.
“Sir, allowing Vincent Gallo onto the private courtyard gives him a tactical vantage point,” Marcus argued.
“If I hide behind the iron gates, Gallo will assume I am bedridden, weak, and terrified of his arrival,” Dominic answered.
He wheeled himself toward the main entrance, his posture straight, his chin lifted, and his expression carved out of solid marble.
Outside in the circular brick courtyard, tires screeched to a halt as three black Cadillac Escalades parked in a predatory formation.
The driver of the center SUV opened the passenger door, allowing Vincent Gallo to step out into the crisp morning air.
Gallo was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, dressed in a tailored navy overcoat with silver hair slicked back against his scalp.
He wore the arrogant smile of a predator who believed his rival was already mortally wounded.
Behind him, four burly enforcers stood with their hands buried deep inside their dark trench coats.
Dominic rolled onto the front terrace, stopping just behind the low stone balustrade where the morning sunlight hit his sharp features.
Two of Dominic’s personal guards flanked his wheelchair, but neither of them drew their weapons.
“Dominic, it warms my cold heart to see you out in the fresh air,” Gallo called out, spreading his hands wide in mock warmth.
“Cut the pleasantries, Vincent,” Dominic replied, his baritone voice echoing off the stone facade of the estate.
“I hear whispers across the river that the great Dominic Mason has been burning up with fever behind locked doors,” Gallo said, taking two slow steps forward.
“Whispers in this city usually originate from men who are looking for an excuse to die young,” Dominic countered without blinking.
Gallo let out a dry, rasping laugh that failed to hide the predatory calculation behind his narrow eyes.
“Our Southside agreement clearly stated that the warehouse district belonged to my family’s logistics syndicate,” Gallo sneered.
“Your family failed to meet the bond debt three weeks ago, which transferred ownership directly to my commercial holding company,” Dominic stated flatly.
“You took advantage of a temporary cash flow hiccup,” Gallo snarled, dropping his fake smile.
“I took advantage of your utter incompetence, Vincent, just as any legitimate businessman would,” Dominic retorted.
Gallo took another step forward, his eyes dropping briefly to Dominic’s stationary legs before rising back to his face.
“You sit very comfortably in that chair, Dominic, but how long can you hold Atlanta when your own body is failing you?” Gallo whispered maliciously.
Dominic leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the armrests of his wheelchair, his eyes gleaming like polished obsidian.
“Look up at the roofline of the east pavilion, Vincent,” Dominic suggested smoothly.
Gallo hesitated, his eyes darting upward toward the slate tiles of the third-story roof.
The subtle red reflection of a long-range tactical rifle scope danced briefly across Gallo’s dark overcoat.
Gallo’s enforcers stiffened instantly, their knuckles whitening around the grips of their concealed weapons.
“You have precisely sixty seconds to return to your vehicles and clear my perimeter,” Dominic said in an icy whisper.
“If your tires are still on my gravel when the minute hand moves, none of your six drivers will live to see the expressway,” Dominic added.
Gallo’s jaw clenched so tightly that a tendon strained against his weathered neck.
He knew Dominic never bluffed; the Mason name had been built upon promises kept with ruthless, devastating violence.
“This isn’t over, Mason,” Gallo spat, taking a step backward toward his SUV.
As Gallo turned to leave, his foot accidentally kicked something bright resting near the base of the terrace steps.
It was a small, bright yellow plastic baby rattle that had slipped out of Megan’s grocery bag when she arrived that morning.
Gallo stared down at the colorful toy, his eyes widening in sudden realization before a sinister grin split his wrinkled face.
“A baby rattle on the steps of the untouchable hermit’s mansion?” Gallo mused aloud, pointing a manicured finger at the toy.
“Get off my property, Vincent,” Dominic commanded, his voice vibrating with a sudden, lethal rage that made the air turn cold.
Gallo chuckled darkly as he climbed into the back of his luxury vehicle, slamming the reinforced door behind him.
The three SUVs reversed sharply around the stone fountain and sped through the open wrought-iron gates, leaving a cloud of dust in the driveway.
May you like
Dominic sat motionless on the terrace, staring at the small yellow rattle lying alone on the damp gravel.
The silence that settled over the estate was heavier than ever before, because Dominic knew that Gallo had just discovered his only weakness.
