Chapter 8 - The Siege of Staten Island
The iron gates of the Staten Island estate were blown off their hinges by a concussive blast that shook the ancient oaks lining the driveway.
Smoke billowed across the manicured lawns as four black SUVs roared through the breach, disgorging a dozen masked gunmen clad in tactical gear bearing the Lucchese syndicate insignia. They moved with terrifying military precision, sweeping toward the grand entrance of the stone mansion with automatic rifles raised.
Inside the darkened study, Salvatore Rossi sat calmly in his leather armchair by the fireplace.
He held a glass of aged cognac in one hand, swirling the dark amber liquid slowly. Beside him stood two loyal bodyguards with drawn weapons, their breathing heavy as the sound of splintering wood echoed from the grand foyer downstairs.
"They're coming, Don Salvatore," one bodyguard muttered, his finger twitching on the trigger of his submachine gun. "We need to get you to the panic room."
Salvatore took a slow sip of his cognac, his pale eyes gleaming with cold amusement. "Panic rooms are for men who are afraid to die in their own homes. Let them come."
The heavy oak doors of the study blew inward with a deafening crash, splintering into a thousand wooden shards.
Three masked gunmen poured into the room, their assault rifles leveled directly at the old man’s chest.
"End of the line, old man," the lead gunman sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger. "The Rossi dynasty is finished."
Before the gunman could pull the trigger, the French windows behind them shattered inward in a cascade of crystal glass.
A dark shadow dropped silently from the second-story balcony like a predatory bird.
Before the mercenaries could turn, Tessa hit the floor rolling, her hands coming up with two heavy suppressed pistols. Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Three precise shots echoed through the room. The three gunmen dropped instantly, their weapons clattering uselessly against the Persian rug.
Salvatore didn't even flinch. He simply raised his glass toward Tessa with a crooked, approving smile.
"You took your time, little bird," Salvatore rasped.
Tessa stood up, brushing a shard of glass from the shoulder of her tactical jacket, her eyes burning with cold fury. "Traffic on the Verrazzano was terrible, Your Grace."
Behind her, through the shattered french doors, stepped Gabriel—his face streaked with soot and dried blood, holding an assault rifle—followed by a dozen grim-faced men whose weathered faces and old-world tattoos marked them as veterans of the true Sicilian guard.
"The perimeter is secure," Gabriel said, his voice hard as iron as he stepped into the room and checked his magazine. "Frank Moretti is captured. The Lucchese enforcers are neutralized."
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Salvatore slowly set his cognac glass down on the table. He looked at his grandson, then at Tessa, and for the first time in years, a genuine, warm pride softened the harsh lines of his weathered face.
"The empire was rotting from the inside," Salvatore murmured softly, leaning on his cane as he rose to his feet. "We needed a cleaner. And we found a queen."
