Chapter 4 - The Scent of Blood
The blast of the .45 inside the cramped living room was deafening. Glass sprayed outward into the night in a brilliant, glittering fan.
The scout walking behind Paulie Varga took the heavy hollow-point round straight through the center of his chest. The kinetic force lifted him off his feet, throwing him backward into the snowbank where he lay twitching, the crimson stain spreading across his gray winter jacket like ink through blotting paper.
“Ambush!” Paulie roared, throwing himself behind the snow-covered hood of a rusted station wagon parked at the curb.
The second soldier didn't have time to react. Lorenzo stepped directly into the shattered window frame, utilizing the heavy oak casing as cover. Two controlled, rhythmic trigger pulls. *Crack. Crack.*
The second man dropped his canvas bag, caught one round in the shoulder and the second in the throat, and crumpled against the wooden fence with a wet, choking gasp.
Automatic fire erupted from behind the station wagon. The MAC-10 rattled through a thirty-round magazine in less than two seconds, 9mm rounds chewing through the flimsy wooden siding of the house, pulverizing drywall, shattering picture frames, and turning the cheap furniture into matchsticks.
Lorenzo didn't flinch. He stayed low behind the thick foundation wall, counting the rounds in his head.
*Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.*
The distinct, metallic click of an empty bolt locking back echoed across the quiet street.
Lorenzo didn't wait for Paulie to reload.
He lunged through the front door, clearing the three porch steps in a single, explosive leap. His boots hit the snow and drove him forward like a freight train. Paulie was frantic, fumbling with a fresh stick magazine in his frozen gloves, his eyes bulging as he saw Lorenzo Duca barreling toward him through the blizzard like a vengeful specter in a tailored suit.
Paulie abandoned the weapon and reached for the trench knife tucked in his belt, his scarred face twisting into a snarl of desperation. “You should’ve stayed dead, Lorenzo!”
Lorenzo didn't bother using the gun.
He closed the distance in two strides, ducked beneath Paulie’s wild, upward slash, and drove his left shoulder straight into Paulie’s sternum. The impact sounded like two oak beams colliding. Paulie gasped, his breath tearing from his lungs, his back crashing against the frozen metal of the station wagon’s hood.
Before Paulie could recover, Lorenzo’s right hand clamped around his throat like a hydraulic vise, lifting him until the heels of his boots scraped uselessly against the snow. Lorenzo slammed him back against the car, the Kimber’s muzzle pressed firmly beneath the soft meat of Paulie’s chin.
“Who sent you, Paulie?” Lorenzo asked. His voice wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was deathly, terrifyingly calm.
Paulie choked, blood and saliva bubbling at the corner of his lips, his hands clawing uselessly at Lorenzo’s iron wrist. “Go to hell, Duca... Silvio’s got the whole commission... you’re done...”
“Where is Silvio right now?”
“Estate... Dutchess County... waiting for the call...”
“He’s going to wait a long time,” Lorenzo said softly.
He didn't fire the gun. He simply drove his elbow forward with the precision of a butcher, striking the nerve cluster at the base of Paulie’s skull. The enforcer went completely limp, his eyes rolling back as he slumped into the snowbank, unconscious.
Lorenzo stood over him, chest rising and falling in steady, controlled rhythm. The snow settled on his shoulders, melting against the heat radiating from his neck.
He looked down the street. The gunfire had been loud, but on a freezing Thanksgiving Eve in a depressed, forgotten neighborhood, people didn't run out to look at gunshots. They turned their televisions up and locked their deadbolts. Still, the police wouldn't be long.
He turned on his heel and strode back up the porch steps into the ruined living room.
“Elena,” he called out. “Sophie. Come out.”
The pantry door opened slowly. Elena stepped out first, her knuckles white around her cane, her eyes sweeping over the bullet-riddled walls in sheer terror. Behind her, Sophie emerged, wearing Lorenzo’s oversized coat like a regal cape, her face pale but her eyes completely clear.
“Are they dead?” Sophie asked plainly.
“Two of them are,” Lorenzo answered, reaching down and taking the girl’s small hand in his. “And the third won't be waking up until the police arrive.”
He looked at Elena. “Pack one bag. Only what you can't replace. Photographs, documents. We have six minutes before the sirens start.”
Elena stood frozen, looking around the tiny, dilapidated apartment that had been her prison and her sanctuary for six agonizing years. Then she looked at the brown grocery sacks sitting untouched on the counter, the fresh turkey resting in the butcher paper.
“The food...” she murmured, a stray tear cutting through the dust on her cheek. “We bought all that food...”
Lorenzo’s face softened. He walked over to the counter, took the two heavy sacks into his massive arms, and smiled down at the woman his brother had chosen.
May you like
“We’re taking the food,” Lorenzo said firmly. “I promised Sophie a Thanksgiving dinner, and a Duca never breaks a promise. Now get the bag, Elena. We’re going home.”
***
