Chương 8 - The Price of Loyalty
The firefight in the subterranean corridor was brutal, claustrophobic, and over in ninety seconds.
When the emergency backup generators finally kicked in with a dull thud, humming yellow light flooded the shattered dining room. Smoke hung thick in the air, smelling of burnt cordite, pulverized drywall, and the unmistakable metallic stench of freshly spilled blood.
Four masked men in tactical gear lay dead near the threshold, their bodies riddled with bullet holes.
Luca stood over the last body, his breathing ragged, his Sig Sauer smoking in his lowered hand. The left sleeve of his bespoke suit was shredded, soaked through with dark crimson blood where a ricochet had torn through his bicep.
“Luca!” Luna scrambled out from under the table, dropping the revolver onto the ruined rug and running straight toward him, ignoring the shattered glass crunching beneath her heels.
“Stop, Luna, the glass—” Luca began, but she didn't care.
She reached him, her trembling hands instantly tearing at the hem of her expensive velvet dress, ripping a long strip of silk to wrap tightly around his bleeding arm.
“You’re hurt,” she sobbed, her hands slick with his blood as she tied the makeshift tourniquet. “You’re bleeding, Luca!”
Luca looked down at her. His eyes, which had been completely consumed by the black rage of combat, softened as he felt her frantic, caring touch. He brought his uninjured hand up, cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the pearls in her hair.
“I’m alive, little bird,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers as his blood dripped onto the floor. “Because of you. I’m alive.”
Across the room, Don Salvatore sat on the floor, propped up against the wall, clutching his chest. His face was gray, his breath coming in shallow, wheezing gasps.
“Father!” Luca snapped out of the trance, rushing to the old man’s side.
“Pills...” Salvatore gasped, clawing at his breast pocket. “Study... desk...”
Vincent Torino rushed over, kneeling beside the fallen Don. “I’ll get them. Hold him!” Vincent sprang to his feet and sprinted down the corridor toward the private elevator.
Luna knelt beside Don Salvatore. Without hesitating, she unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie, and elevated his head against a pile of fallen sofa cushions, using the basic first-aid training she had learned while caring for her ailing mother in Mexico.
“Breathe slowly, Señor,” she instructed in a firm, calming voice, taking the old man’s cold, trembling hand in hers. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Look at me. Do not look at the smoke. Look at my eyes.”
Don Salvatore’s unfocused eyes locked onto hers. The terror in his gaze slowly began to recede, anchored by the absolute calm of the girl he had called a dishwasher only hours before. His wheezing slowed, his pulse gradually steadying.
Luca watched her, awe and fierce pride burning behind his eyes.
Five minutes later, the Moretti estate medical team stormed the room, accompanied by Marco and Matteo. Paramedics immediately took over, placing an oxygen mask over Salvatore’s face and loading him onto a gurney.
As they wheeled the Don toward the private surgical suite on the upper levels, Capo Bellini stepped up to Luca, his face white as a sheet.
“They were Spetsnaz,” Bellini whispered, pointing a trembling finger at the tactical gear of the dead assailants. “Russian mercenaries. Vulov sent a wet-work team straight into our home. It's war, Luca. Absolute war.”
Luca didn't answer immediately. He walked over to one of the dead Russian hitmen, knelt down, and used the tip of his knife to peel back the tactical collar on the man's throat.
Tattooed on the side of the mercenary's neck was not a Russian Bratva star.
It was an iron cross entwined with a black serpent.
The personal crest of the Torino family.
Luna, standing just behind Luca, saw the tattoo. Her breath hitched. She looked toward the hallway where Vincent had disappeared just moments before.
“Luca...” she whispered, horror dawning on her face. “Vincent didn't go get pills.”
Luca’s expression morphed into a terrifying mask of pure, unadulterated ice. He slowly stood up, sheathing his blade.
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“No,” Luca said, his voice deadly quiet. “He went to finish what his men started.”
***
