63 Do You Have A Turkey Nobody Wants?” The Little Girl Whispered—The Mafia Boss Turned And Froze

The three armored pickups breached the outer wrought-iron gate using heavy steel rams, their snow chains tearing through the drifts along the winding private driveway.

Twelve men dismounted into the knee-deep snow, moving in fire-teams of three, clad in white winter camouflage, armed with tactical shotguns and automatic rifles. These were not street-corner thugs from Brooklyn; they were professional mercs hired by Carmine Moretti, paid a hundred thousand dollars cash each to ensure no one survived the night at Blackwood Ridge.

The lead fire-team reached the lower terrace, their boots crunching on the frozen flagstone, weapons raised toward the terrace doors.

Suddenly, the floodlights atop the perimeter wall flared to life, casting blinding, halogen-white light across the snow.

A single figure stood on the second-story balcony overlooking the courtyard, silhouetted against the blinding light.

Lorenzo Duca stood without cover, the SIG Sauer raised to his shoulder.

“You’re trespassing,” Lorenzo’s voice boomed through the estate’s external PA system, cold, clear, and completely devoid of fear.

The lead mercenary didn't bother to respond. He swung his rifle upward and opened fire.

A storm of 5.56 rounds tore into the balustrade, sending chunks of shattered limestone raining onto the terrace.

Lorenzo didn't duck. He leaned into the recoil of his weapon, firing in disciplined, three-round bursts.

*Crack-crack-crack. Crack-crack-crack.*

The two lead mercenaries on the left flank were dropped instantly, their white camouflage blooming crimson as they collapsed into the drifts. The remaining men scrambled for cover behind the decorative stone planters and the heavy iron sculptures scattered across the terrace.

Lorenzo stepped backward through the balcony door, moving through the darkened halls of the estate like a ghost who knew every inch of the architecture.

The heavy oak terrace doors below splintered inward under a breaching charge.

Four mercenaries surged into the great hall, their weapons sweeping the shadows beneath the soaring cedar beams. The scent of roasted turkey, sage stuffing, and butter still hung heavily in the warm air, grotesque in its contrast with the gun smoke drifting from the breached doorway.

“Clear the ground floor!” the team leader barked through his tactical radio. “Find the girl and the woman! Execute on sight!”

From the darkness of the mezzanine above, a shadow dropped.

Lorenzo descended like an avenging angel. His boots struck the lead merc’s shoulders, driving him violently into the flagstones with enough force to shatter bone. Lorenzo rolled smoothly to his feet, drew the Kimber .45 from his hip in a blur of motion, and fired three point-blank rounds into the two men flanking him before they could bring their barrels to bear.

The team leader scrambled backward, raising his shotgun, his eyes wild with terror as he realized his team was being systematically erased in less than ninety seconds.

“Duca!” the mercenary screamed, pumping the shotgun.

Lorenzo closed the distance with terrifying speed. He stepped inside the shotgun’s swing, his left hand deflecting the barrel toward the ceiling where the blast obliterated a crystal chandelier, sending a shower of glittering glass across the Persian rugs.

With his right hand, Lorenzo drove the butt of the Kimber into the man’s jaw. Teeth sprayed across the stones. The mercenary stumbled backward, crashing into the dining table, overturning the silver platter and sending the remains of the twenty-four-pound turkey tumbling to the floor.

Lorenzo stood over him, the muzzle of the .45 pressed firmly against the bridge of the mercenary’s broken nose.

“Whose orders?” Lorenzo demanded, his voice a low, terrifying growl.

The mercenary choked on his own blood, his hands raised in surrender. “Carmine... Carmine Moretti... he’s waiting at the airstrip in Newburgh... he had a private jet fueled to leave for Costa Rica once the hit was confirmed!”

Lorenzo stared down at the man for three long, agonizing seconds.

Then he reached down, took the man’s radio from his tactical vest, and keyed the microphone.

“Carmine,” Lorenzo said into the handset.

Across the static, fifteen miles away at the private airfield, a ragged breath was drawn.

“Lorenzo?” Carmine Moretti’s voice wavered, thin and shaking with sudden, absolute dread.

“Your men fought poorly, Carmine,” Lorenzo said softly, looking around his ruined dining room. “And they knocked over my niece’s Thanksgiving turkey.”

“Lorenzo... listen to me... we can settle this... forty million... fifty million... I’ll give you the entire Manhattan port operations—”

“Keep the money, Carmine,” Lorenzo replied, his voice flat as a gravestone. “You’ll need it to pay the ferryman.”

Lorenzo dropped the radio to the floor and crushed it beneath the heavy heel of his combat boot.

He turned to the mercenary lying bloody on the table. “Get up,” Lorenzo ordered.

The man scrambled to his feet, trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale. “You’re... you’re letting me go?”

“Take your dead and drive the trucks off my mountain,” Lorenzo said, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. “And tell every crew between here and the Atlantic Ocean that if another bullet is fired in my direction, I won't stop until there isn't a single person carrying the name Moretti left breathing on this earth.”