Chapter 15
The soaring peaks of the Alps were swallowed by a raging, apocalyptic blizzard, echoing the catastrophic winter storm that had plagued the Colorado lodge. The Iron Collar’s stronghold was a centuries-old, converted stone monastery perched precariously on a jagged precipice, entirely isolated from civilization. It had been transformed into an impenetrable fortress, bristling with anti-aircraft batteries and electromagnetic fencing.
Under the cover of pitch-black darkness, two unmarked, radar-evading military transport helicopters approached the citadel. Utilizing the howling winds to mask their roaring rotors, dozens of Richard Bellacorte’s most elite, hardened mercenaries fast-roped directly onto the monastery’s frozen roof.
Richard led the assault formation. Clad in pitch-black tactical armor, clutching a suppressed assault rifle fitted with thermal optics, he had not come to negotiate. He had come to extinguish every beating heart behind these stone walls.
"Cut the primary grid and jam all localized frequencies," Richard commanded over the encrypted comms network. "Leave no survivors."
A shaped directional charge blew the heavy oak roof-access doors into splinters. The strike team flooded into the fortress like a tide of black water. No warnings were issued. The Iron Collar sentries barely had time to register the breach before suppressed rounds dropped them silently to the stone floor.
Richard moved through the freezing, medieval corridors with the terrifying speed and ruthlessness of a god of vengeance. He executed anyone who stood in his path without a blink. The suppressed rage of the past four years, the grief of a father, and the disgust at the terror inflicted upon his innocent grandson forged him into an unstoppable killing machine.
Descending into the heart of the citadel, they reached a massive, reinforced steel door. Dozens of heavily armed Iron Collar guards were entrenched behind barricades, laying down a withering wall of defensive fire into the hallway.
"Deploy flashbangs and CS gas! Breach!"
Through a blinding cloud of artificial fog and tear gas, Richard and his vanguard assaulted the door. C4 blew the steel hinges inward.
The room beyond was an expansive, vaulted great hall, warmed by a roaring, cavernous fireplace. In the center of the hall, sitting upon a plush, blood-red leather armchair, was a man in an immaculate white three-piece suit, casually swirling a glass of red wine. Half of his face was obscured by a polished silver mask; the other half was a ruin of horrific, jagged burn scars.
This was the supreme leader of the Iron Collar.
Richard’s mercenaries instantly trained a dozen laser sights onto the man’s head. But the masked man did not panic. He took a slow sip of his wine, then looked up at Richard with his one remaining eye—a pale, gray eye that was hauntingly familiar.
"Welcome to my castle, Father," a raspy, damaged voice echoed from behind the silver metal.
Richard froze. The heavy assault rifle in his hands trembled for the very first time in his life. His chest tightened painfully, as if an invisible vice were crushing his heart.
The man set his wine glass on a side table. He slowly reached up, unclasped the silver mask, and let it fall to the stone floor. The metallic clatter echoed loudly in the deathly silent hall.
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The horribly scarred, burned face was fully revealed in the flickering firelight. Despite the catastrophic disfigurement, the sharp, aristocratic jawline and the proud, unbroken gaze were unmistakable.
"Dominic..." Richard breathed, the ruthless mafia kingpin’s voice shattering into a million pieces.
