Chapter 25
The magnificent, minimalist executive penthouse of the Bellacorte Tower plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness. The city lights of Chicago outside the floor-to-ceiling windows offered the only illumination, casting long, eerie shadows across the polished marble floor. The automated security grid had been completely severed, the heavy oak doors locking electronically, transforming the ultimate symbol of the family's legitimate power into a suffocating, high-altitude steel cage.
"Get down!" Richard roared, his voice shaking the massive room.
He lunged across the mahogany desk, tackling Sarah to the floor just as a hail of suppressed, armor-piercing rounds shattered the reinforced glass windows. Crystal decanters exploded, and the heavy leather chairs were shredded by the devastating crossfire.
Noah hit the marble floor beside them, his bespoke midnight-blue suit instantly covered in glass shards and dust. The eighteen-year-old heir did not panic. His heart hammered violently, but his brilliant mind rapidly assessed the tactical nightmare. The assassins had repelled down from the roof using tactical harnesses, breaching the penthouse from the exterior to bypass the lobby security checkpoints.
"They brought heavy ordnance to a corporate suite," Richard growled, drawing the heavy custom pistol he still carried in his shoulder holster despite a decade of peace. His dark eyes burned with the primal, lethal fury of a veteran mafia kingpin. At seventy-six, his physical speed had waned, but his combat instincts were as flawless and deadly as the day he tore the Morelli syndicate apart.
Four assassins, clad in advanced black tactical gear and ballistic masks, stepped through the shattered window frames, moving with silent, military precision. Their assault rifles were equipped with laser sights, cutting through the swirling dust.
"Stay behind the desk, Sarah," Richard commanded softly. He looked at his grandson. "Noah. The emergency armory is concealed behind the oil painting on the west wall. Crawl under the sightlines. Go!"
Noah didn't hesitate. Moving with athletic agility, he scrambled across the debris-covered floor, utilizing the overturned mahogany chairs for cover. The lead assassin spotted the movement and tracked his rifle toward the young man.
Before the assassin could pull the trigger, Richard stood up from behind the desk, completely exposing himself to the enemy fire. He raised his heavy pistol and fired two rapid, deafening shots. The hollow-point rounds struck the lead assassin cleanly in the chest, the kinetic force knocking him backward onto the shattered glass.
The remaining three assassins instantly redirected their fire toward Richard. A bullet grazed the patriarch's left shoulder, tearing through his suit jacket, but Richard didn't even flinch. He held his ground, providing absolute, unyielding suppressive fire, fulfilling the promise he had made ten years ago that nobody in this world would ever harm his family again.
Noah reached the west wall, pressed his palm against a hidden biometric scanner, and the heavy oil painting swung open, revealing a cache of tactical weaponry. He grabbed a suppressed submachine gun and a spare magazine. He had never fired a weapon at a human being; his life had been defined by prestigious academies, boardrooms, and the peaceful, snow-covered mountains of Colorado. But the blood of Dominic and Richard coursed hotly through his veins.
Noah pivoted flawlessly, raising the weapon. He didn't close his eyes. He aimed directly at the assassin flanking his grandfather and squeezed the trigger in a controlled, three-round burst. The assassin dropped instantly, his ballistic mask shattered.
Richard glanced over at his grandson, a profound mixture of immense pride and deep, agonizing sorrow flashing in his dark eyes. The era of peace had officially died, and the boy had been forced to embrace the darkness.
Frank and a squad of heavily armed internal security guards finally blew the locked oak doors off their hinges, flooding the penthouse with overwhelming firepower. The remaining two assassins were neutralized in seconds.
The ringing silence that followed was heavy with the scent of cordite and blood. Noah slowly lowered the submachine gun, his chest heaving, staring at the lifeless bodies on the floor.
Sarah crawled out from behind the ruined desk, weeping softly as she rushed to check Richard’s bleeding shoulder. "Richard, you're hurt!"
"It's a scratch," Richard grunted, rejecting the pain with sheer willpower. He looked down at one of the dead assassins. Carved deeply into the exposed skin of the man's neck was a crude, rusted cross.
May you like
"Mark," Richard whispered, his voice vibrating with absolute, merciless hatred. "He sent them to butcher us in our own home. He wants us to feel the terror he felt."
Noah walked over, his blue eyes cold and hard as diamond. He dropped the empty magazine onto the marble floor. "He failed. And now, we are going to bury him."
