Chapter 7 - A Dance At The Edge Of Ruin
Roman walked into the circle of floodlights with an arrogant, deliberate stride, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his dark trousers. Rain soaked his hair, plastering it against his forehead, but his head remained high, projecting the terrifying majesty of a king walking into a rebellion.
""Salvatore,"" Roman’s voice cut through the sound of the rain, clear and mocking. ""Twenty years in exile, and you still haven't learned how to dress for this climate.""
The armed men raised their rifles, lasers snapping directly onto Roman's chest and head. Salvatore Marcone raised an aged, ringed hand, signaling his men to hold fire. A grotesque smile wrinkled the old mobster’s face.
""You have your father’s mouth, Roman,"" Salvatore called out across the concrete. ""And his arrogance. Where is the girl? Victor told me you grew sentimental over a common tray-carrier.""
""The girl is halfway to the state border in an armored convoy,"" Roman lied smoothly, stopping fifteen paces from the barge gangway. ""She knows nothing. She saw nothing. You used a civilian to pull me out into the open. Well, I’m here. Let the boy go.""
Beneath the wet wooden planks of the pier, Clara crawled through the freezing mud and barnacle-encrusted timber. Saltwater splashed into her mouth, and splintered wood tore at her palms, but she barely felt the pain. Above her head, every step of the armed men sounded like artillery strikes.
She reached the stern of the barge, peeking through the gaps in the timber. Her brother was barely ten feet away, shivering violently, his chest heaving under the wet burlap sack.
""You think you can negotiate?"" Salvatore laughed, stepping closer to the bound boy. He drew a revolver from his coat and pressed the cold barrel against the back of Leo's neck. ""You rule this city through fear, Roman. But fear only works when you have nothing to lose. The moment you looked at that girl in the ballroom, everyone saw it. The great Roman Duca has a pulse. And anything with a pulse can bleed.""
""Pull the trigger, Salvatore,"" Roman challenged, his eyes turning to black ice. ""And every offshore account your family owns, every warehouse in the shipping basin, and every safehouse from here to Palermo burns before dawn. You think I came here without signing the executive orders? If I don't check in every thirty minutes, my syndicates will scour your bloodline from this earth.""
Salvatore’s smile wavered for a split second. Doubt—lethal, poisonous doubt—flickered in his rheumy eyes. He glanced sideways at Victor. ""Is he bluffing?""
""He doesn't bluff about arson,"" Victor muttered, shifting nervously.
Underneath the barge, Clara climbed the iron mooring ladder, creeping onto the deck behind a stack of rusted steel shipping containers. She was drenched, covered in grease, and terrified, but seeing her brother held hostage ignited a ferocious courage inside her soul.
She pulled the gun Roman had given her, clicking off the safety with a steady thumb.
She aimed directly at the heavy floodlight cable running down the generator pole beside the shipping crates.
Forgive me, Roman, she thought.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun kicked violently in her hands, but the bullet tore through the thick rubber conduit. A blinding shower of blue electrical sparks exploded across the barge, and the massive floodlights died with a loud pop, plunging the pier into pitch-black chaos.
May you like
""Ambush!"" someone screamed.
Gunfire erupted everywhere.
