Chapter 5 - The Ambush in the Fog
The front porch windows shattered into a thousand glittering shards as heavy gunfire ripped through the wooden clapboards of the bungalow.
Plaster dust exploded from the hallway ceiling, filling the air with a choking white fog that tasted of lime and gunpowder.
“Get down!” Luca roared, shoving Vanessa, Nora, and little Leo into the narrow bathroom beneath the center staircase.
I dropped flat against the hardwood floor beside the kitchen entrance, covering my head as splinters of oak rained down on my back.
Outside, Marco Bellini’s voice echoed through the freezing sleet, arrogant and wild with adrenaline.
“Moretti!” Marco screamed over the sound of idling V8 engines.
“Throw the kid out the front door and walk away!”
“This is Bellini business!”
“You don't have a dog in this fight until the wedding contracts are filed!”
Inside the darkened hallway, Luca and Sal knelt on opposite sides of the front entrance, their backs pressed against the solid brick framing of the fireplace.
Luca peered around the corner of the doorframe, his automatic pistol held high and ready.
“Marco!” Luca called out, his voice cutting through the ringing silence of the street like a cold steel blade.
“Your father sent a boy to do a butcher’s job!”
A burst of automatic fire answered him, chewing through the wood of the front door and sending jagged chunks of pine spinning across the rug.
Sal did not flinch.
The old chauffeur sat calmly on his haunches, breathing through his nose, his thumb resting gently on the safety of the Remington shotgun.
“Two men moving up the driveway along the east wall,” Sal whispered, his voice as level as if he were giving driving directions.
“They’re trying to reach the kitchen door to cut off the rear exit.”
“Can you take the kitchen, Sal?” Luca asked without turning his head.
Sal racked the pump of the shotgun with a slow, deliberate movement.
“I built that kitchen door with your father in the spring of ’98, Luca.”
“I know exactly where the studs are.”
Sal crawled on his belly toward the kitchen, completely ignoring the plaster dust settling in his silver hair.
I huddled against the lower cabinets as Sal slid into position behind the cast-iron stove.
Through the frosted glass of the rear door, two dark shadows moved up the wooden steps.
A boot slammed against the lock, splintering the frame.
The moment the door swung open six inches, Sal rose to one knee, braced the stock against his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.
The roar of the twelve-gauge shotgun in the enclosed kitchen was deafening, a wall of flame illuminating the room in blinding white.
The heavy blast caught the first attacker squarely in the chest plate, throwing him backward off the porch into the frozen mud below.
The second man turned to run, but Sal pumped the action instantly and fired a second round through the exterior railing, blowing the wooden posts into splinters and sending the shooter tumbling into the snowbank with a shattered knee.
“Rear is clear, Emma,” Sal said calmly, racking another shell into the chamber with effortless rhythm.
“Keep your head down and stay near the floorboards.”
Meanwhile, at the front of the house, Luca had moved into the open window frame.
He waited with absolute discipline until the muzzle flashes from the lead Suburban paused as the shooters reloaded.
In that three-second window, Luca leaned into the freezing rain and fired four controlled, double-tap shots down the walkway.
Two sharp cries of pain pierced the sleet.
One of Marco’s enforcers collapsed across the hood of the black SUV, his weapon clattering into the gutter.
Marco Bellini dropped behind the engine block of the second vehicle, his bravado instantly evaporating into frantic, desperate shouting.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Marco screamed, his voice pitching high with panic.
“Moretti, listen to me!”
“My father will wipe your family off the map if you don't back down!”
Luca stepped out onto the shattered front porch into the freezing sleet, his pistol lowered but held firmly at his side.
His tuxedo was covered in white plaster dust, but his posture was completely relaxed, radiating an overwhelming, predatory confidence.
“Your father is an old hyena who eats off other men’s kills, Marco,” Luca said, walking down the wooden steps into the slush.
Sal stepped out onto the porch behind him, the smoking barrel of the shotgun resting easily in the crook of his elbow.
Marco peeked out from behind the front tire of the Suburban, his face pale and soaked with freezing rain.
He was barely twenty-four years old, wearing an expensive designer coat that was now caked in black Chicago street slush.
When he saw Sal Russo standing beside Luca with a combat shotgun, Marco’s jaw dropped in disbelief.
“The driver…?” Marco stammered.
“You brought the old driver?”
“This old driver buried six men who were ten times tougher than you before your mother was out of diapers,” Sal said, spitting a grain of tobacco onto the icy steps.
Luca walked directly up to the front fender of the SUV and leveled his pistol between Marco’s eyes.
“Drop the gun, Marco.”
Marco looked at the cold black barrel, swallowed hard, and let his pistol slip from his numb fingers into the slush.
Luca grabbed Marco by the throat, hauled him over the hood of the vehicle, and slammed him face-down against the steaming engine block.
“Where is your father right now?” Luca demanded, pressing the steel barrel against the base of Marco’s skull.
“He’s… he’s at the Chicago Club downtown,” Marco gasped, his cheek burning against the hot metal of the hood.
“He’s waiting for the phone call to confirm you signed the contracts.”
“Call him,” Luca ordered.
Luca reached into Marco’s pocket, pulled out a gold-plated smartphone, and thrust it against the young man’s ear after dialing the direct line.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Marco?” Antonio Bellini’s raspy, arrogant voice boomed through the speaker.
“Is the matter settled?”
Luca took the phone from Marco’s ear and brought it to his own lips.
“The matter is settled, Antonio,” Luca said quietly.
A long, suffocating silence fell over the other end of the line.
“Luca?” Antonio’s voice lost all its swagger, replaced by a sudden, cold tremor of fear.
“Where is Marco?”
“Marco is lying in the slush on Addison Street with three broken ribs and no weapons,” Luca replied smoothly.
“And your grandson is on his way to my estate.”
“Luca, be reasonable,” Antonio stammered, his breath coming fast.
“This was a family dispute.”
“The girl was reckless—”
“You used a sick four-year-old boy to extort my father’s shipping lanes,” Luca interrupted, his voice dropping into a tone that meant death was already written on the ledger.
“You violated the sacred peace between our houses.”
“And worst of all, Antonio…” Luca looked back toward the porch, where Sal was brushing snow from his frayed driving coat.
“…you made the mistake of thinking my father’s loyal men were weak because their hair had turned gray.”
Luca squeezed his hand, crushing the gold phone until the screen shattered into a web of black glass, and tossed the broken pieces into the gutter.
He turned back toward the house.
“Sal.”
The old man stepped down the wooden stairs, his boots crunching steadily in the frozen slush.
“Yes, Luca?”
“Get the Suburban started.”
May you like
Luca looked toward the porch where Nora and I were leading little Leo, bundled tightly in blankets, out into the night air.
“We have an engagement dinner to finish.”
