Chapter 14 - The Final Stand
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Dominic crouched behind a heavy marble pillar in the grand foyer, reloading his weapon. The front doors had been blown off their hinges, cold rain and wind howling into the ruined entrance.
Three Morrow men were pinned down behind overturned couches, firing wildly into the dark.
“Virelli!” a harsh voice echoed over the gunfire. “Give up the house! Vito just wants you dead! Surrender, and your men can walk away!”
Dominic didn't answer. He checked his ammunition. He had exactly seven rounds left.
He tapped his earpiece. “Silvio, status.”
Static crackled in his ear. “We’re pinned in the east wing, Boss. They’re pushing hard toward the master suite.”
They were looking for him, but they were getting dangerously close to Isabella’s room.
Panic, cold and sharp, finally pierced Dominic’s icy demeanor. He couldn't stay in the foyer. He had to draw them away from the panic room.
Dominic broke cover, sprinting across the open foyer, firing three precise shots. Two men dropped. The third returned fire, a bullet grazing Dominic’s shoulder, tearing through his shirt and stinging like fire.
He ignored the pain, diving into the main hallway leading to the west wing, deliberately making noise to draw their attention.
“He’s moving west! Go!” the remaining Morrow men yelled, chasing after him.
Dominic led them through the dining room, the library, and into the massive conservatory at the back of the house. The glass walls reflected the storm outside.
He was trapped.
Four heavily armed men stepped into the conservatory, their weapons raised. The leader smiled cruelly, stepping forward.
“End of the line, Dominic,” the man sneered. “Vito sends his regards.”
Dominic stood tall, bleeding from his shoulder, refusing to show fear. He raised his pistol, fully prepared to take as many of them with him as he could.
Before anyone could pull a trigger, the glass ceiling of the conservatory shattered violently.
The men looked up in shock as two tear gas canisters dropped through the broken glass, immediately flooding the room with thick, blinding white smoke.
Chaos erupted. The Morrow men began coughing, firing blindly into the fog.
Dominic dropped to the floor, pulling his shirt over his nose.
Through the smoke, dark figures descended from tactical ropes attached to a helicopter hovering silently above the storm.
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They weren't police. They weren't Morrow men.
They were the elite response team of the New York Syndicate.
