Chapter 8
Marcus backed away wildly, his tactical boots stumbling over the incline of the concrete exit ramp. The faint red glow of the emergency lights painted his terrified face in a sinister hue. His hands shook violently as he raised his handgun, aiming blindly into the pitch-black void of the garage where Luca had vanished.
"Stay back, Luca!" Marcus screamed, his voice cracking with sheer desperation. "I'll shoot! I swear to God, I'll light up this entire garage!"
The only answer was the slow, deliberate click-clack of polished black dress shoes echoing rhythmically against the concrete. The sound came from everywhere and nowhere, a psychological torture designed to break whatever nerve Marcus had left.
"You had it all, Marcus," Luca’s voice floated through the dark, chillingly calm and utterly devoid of mercy. "You had my trust. You had wealth. But you wanted the crown. Now, look at what it cost you."
Marcus fired wildly into the darkness. Bang! Bang! Bang! The deafening shots ripped through the air, striking nothing but parked cars and concrete. His slide locked back with an empty, metallic click. He was out of ammo.
Marcus frantically reached for his spare magazine, his hands fumbling in the dark.
Before he could reload, a massive, muscular hand shot out of the shadows, wrapping violently around his throat.
With terrifying, brute strength, Luca lifted Marcus entirely off his feet and slammed him brutally against the cold concrete wall of the ramp. The heavy impact knocked the breath out of the traitor. Marcus gasped, his eyes bulging as he stared into the piercing, intense eyes of his former boss.
Luca’s thick dark brown hair was slightly tousled, and the dark tattoos on his chest were visible where his black dress shirt had pulled open further. He looked like a god of vengeance.
"Please," Marcus choked out, his hands clawing uselessly at Luca’s iron grip. "The Falcones... they made me do it. They threatened my family!"
"Do not lie to me in your final moments," Luca whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent shivers down Marcus’s spine. "The Falcones didn't threaten you. They bought you. And because of your greed, my wife is dead, and my daughter spent three years in a wheelchair."
Luca didn't use his gun. With cold, calculated precision, he drew a sleek, matte-black tactical knife from his waistband.
"This is for my wife," Luca stated softly.
He didn't kill Marcus instantly. He struck with surgical, punishing accuracy, ensuring the traitor would never walk or hold a weapon again, leaving him broken and permanently paralyzed on the concrete floor to face the wrath of the syndicate council later. Marcus collapsed in a whimpering, agonizing heap, entirely neutralized.
Luca wiped the blade on Marcus’s jacket, sheathed it, and turned back toward the dark expanse of the garage. He took a deep, steadying breath, forcing the violent, dark energy of the Mafia boss to recede, replacing it with the desperate father.
"Hannah," Luca called out, his voice smooth and reassuring. "It's clear. Come out."
From behind the far pillar, Hannah emerged. Her mint-green service dress was covered in concrete dust, but she held Sophia safely in her arms. The little girl was wide awake now, her bright eyes looking around the dark garage, but she didn't cry.
Luca walked quickly toward them. He pulled the heavy keys from his pocket and pressed his thumb to the biometric fob. The massive black armored SUV beeped twice, the heavy locks disengaging, and the headlights flared to life, illuminating the path to safety.
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"Get in," Luca said gently, opening the heavy, bulletproof rear door. "We are leaving."
Hannah climbed into the luxurious leather backseat, clutching Sophia tightly. Luca slammed the door shut, securing them in a fortress of steel, and quickly moved to the driver's seat. It was time to get his family out of the warzone.
