Chapter 18 - The Bloody Boardroom
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The warehouse in Salerno was massive, smelling of salt, rusted iron, and expensive cigars.
Silvio stood at the head of a long, heavy steel table, surrounded by twelve capos who had pledged their loyalty to his coup. They were drinking champagne, celebrating the supposed demise of the young king.
"Giovanni was a fool," Silvio announced, raising his glass. "He was soft. He let a waitress distract him from the business. Tonight, we return the Rossi family to its true glory. To absolute power."
The men raised their glasses in agreement.
Before anyone could take a sip, the massive rolling steel doors of the warehouse slammed shut with a deafening, concussive boom. The heavy locks engaged electronically from the outside, sealing the men inside.
The lights flickered, then died, plunging the warehouse into darkness.
"What is happening?!" Silvio shouted, dropping his glass. "Guards!"
The guards didn't answer.
Instead, the harsh, blinding glare of high-beam headlights flooded the warehouse as a black SUV, parked hidden in the shadows of the loading dock, suddenly roared to life.
Standing on the hood of the vehicle, illuminated perfectly by the headlights, was Giovanni Rossi.
He didn't have an army. He had an assault rifle, a tactical vest, and the terrifying, unhinged aura of a man who had nothing left to lose.
"Hello, Uncle," Gio’s voice echoed through the warehouse speakers, booming and absolute. "I hear you are giving my eulogy."
"Kill him!" Silvio shrieked, scrambling backward as the capos frantically drew their weapons.
But Gio was faster.
He opened fire, a relentless, deafening barrage of bullets that shredded the steel table and tore through the traitorous capos. He didn't aim to wound. He aimed to erase.
The firefight was brutal, bloody, and entirely one-sided. Gio moved with tactical perfection, utilizing the darkness and his superior firepower to dismantle the men who had betrayed his father.
Within four minutes, the warehouse was silent, save for the groans of the dying and the hiss of steam from shattered pipes.
Gio leaped down from the SUV, his weapon smoking, and walked slowly toward the back of the room.
Silvio lay on the concrete floor, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to the stomach. He looked up at his nephew, his silver eyes wide with terror and disbelief.
"Giovanni, please," Silvio coughed, blood spilling from his lips. "We are family. Blood."
"You poisoned my father," Gio stated coldly, standing over the dying man, drawing his pistol. "You tried to kill the woman I love. You are not my blood. You are a cancer."
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Gio didn't hesitate. He leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger.
The traitor was dead. The empire was reclaimed. But as Gio stood alone in the bloody warehouse, the victory tasted like ash. He had won his throne, but he had lost his queen.
