Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
The grand foyer of the Carver estate was bathed in the harsh red glow of emergency backup lights.
The massive double front doors swung open, letting in a swirl of freezing snow and wind. Walking into the foyer was Don Carmine Moretti—a fat, sixty-year-old man wearing a heavy mink coat, his silver hair slicked back. Surrounding him were six heavily armed men carrying automatic weapons.
Carmine Moretti was the head of the Moretti family, a ruthless old-school mobster who had ruled South Chicago for three decades through fear and violence.
Vincent Carver descended the marble staircase alone. He held no weapon in his hands, his hands casually resting inside his coat pockets. He walked down to the bottom step, looking down at Carmine as if the older boss were nothing more than a trespasser in a public park.
"Carmine," Vincent said calmly, his voice echoing in the vast foyer. "You broke our cease-fire protocol. You brought armed men into my home. Explain why you shouldn't be executed on this floor right now."
Carmine snorted, stepping forward, his gold rings catching the dim red light.
"Don't give me that noble speech, Carver!" Carmine growled, his voice raspy from decades of cigar smoke. "Your lieutenant, Marcus Dane, walked into my nephew Jimmy’s office two weeks ago! He humiliated my family! He forced Jimmy to hand over legal loan contracts at gunpoint!"
"Jimmy was extorting an employee of mine," Vincent replied coldly. "I paid the original debt in full. Fifty thousand dollars cash. Your nephew got greedy, Carmine. He was warned."
"I don't care about the girl or the debt!" Carmine snarled, pointing a thick, diamond-encrusted finger at Vincent. "You humiliated the Moretti name! You made my family look weak in front of the other syndicates! In our world, blood pays for disrespect!"
Carmine motioned to his men. Two of them raised their submachine guns, aiming directly at Vincent’s chest.
"I’m taking this estate, Carver," Carmine sneered. "And once I put a bullet in your head, I’m going to personally clear out every servant, maid, and rat hiding in your basement."
Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He simply looked at his watch.
"7:08 PM," Vincent murmured softly. "A poetically familiar time."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Carmine spat.
"I’m talking about infrastructure, Carmine," Vincent said, raising his eyes to fix Carmine with a terrifying glare. "You thought you breached my gate with a stolen security card. Did you really think my system didn't flag that card five miles before you reached the driveway?"
Before Carmine could react, high-powered floodlights snapped on from the upper balconies of the foyer, blinding Moretti and his men!
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK!
From the shadows above, twelve of Vincent’s elite tactical operators emerged, aiming heavy combat rifles down at the Moretti enforcers from fortified positions on the second-floor gallery.
Red laser sights danced across Carmine’s chest and the foreheads of his guards.
Carmine’s men froze, their hands shaking as they realized they had walked straight into a kill zone. They were completely surrounded, hopelessly outgunned, and caught in the crosshairs of the city's most lethal security team.
"Drop your weapons," Marcus Dane’s voice boomed from the upper balcony, his rifle locked onto Carmine's head. "Now."
One by one, the Moretti enforcers dropped their guns to the marble floor with heavy, metallic clatters.
Carmine stood frozen, his fat face turning pale as he realized the absolute stupidity of his arrogance. He had brought eight men to storm a fortress guarded by a master strategist.
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Vincent walked down the final step, stopping two feet away from the trembling Don.
"You brought weapons into the house where my people live, Carmine," Vincent whispered, his voice dangerously low. "That is a mistake you will not live to repeat."
