Chapter 5 - The Battle on the Marble Stairs
The second-floor mezzanine of the Moretti estate was an inferno of shattered glass, pulverized plaster, and the choking, sulfurous reek of burning cordite.
The grand Carrera marble staircase that had witnessed twenty years of aristocratic galas had been transformed into an urban kill zone.
Below us, in the vast two-story foyer, ten men in black tactical gear and ballistic helmets were advancing in a tight, disciplined wedge, their assault rifles spitting continuous tongues of yellow flame toward the upper landing. The crystal chandelier that had glittered above Lily’s empty dining chair hung tilted on a single shredded steel cable, six of its arms shattered, showering the marble below in raining shards of glass.
"STAIRCASE CLEAR!" a Russian voice boomed in accented English from the foyer. "GET THE GIRL! MAKAROV WANTS THE CHILD ALIVE!"
"Not in this lifetime, you Russian bastards," Luca roared from the top landing.
He didn't take cover behind the balustrades.
He stepped directly into the center of the mezzanine, raising the heavy Benelli shotgun to his shoulder, and fired three high-velocity magnum slug rounds in rapid, concussive succession:
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The lead mercenary’s heavy ballistic shield buckled under the kinetic hammer of the twelve-gauge slugs, blowing the two-hundred-pound man backward across the foyer, crashing through the mahogany console table where Vanessa’s silver tray had sat hours earlier.
I dropped to my right knee behind the limestone pillar, resting the forearm of the Colt carbine against the stone, lining up the holographic red-dot sight with the second mercenary advancing up the east flank.
Crack-crack-crack.
Three controlled, semi-automatic rounds tore through the mercenary’s shoulder seam, dropping him instantly onto the stairs, his weapon skittering down the marble risers.
"GOOD SHOT, MAID!" Luca laughed—a wild, triumphant, and terrifying war cry that echoed off the vaulted ceiling like thunder.
He advanced down the grand staircase three steps at a time, firing with a relentless, mechanical precision that broke the mercenaries' tactical line in less than thirty seconds.
From the north service corridor, Marco and four Moretti loyalists burst into the foyer with automatic submachine guns, catching the remaining Russian shooters in a lethal, devastating crossfire that chewed through the wainscoting and reduced the grand entrance hall to a sea of empty brass casings and drifting white drywall dust.
"CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!" Marco’s voice echoed through the ringing silence of the room.
The shooting stopped.
The only sound in the sixty-foot gallery was the rhythmic hiss of a ruptured fire sprinkler line in the dining room and the heavy, ragged breathing of seven armed men standing amidst the smoke.
On the floor of the foyer, pinned beneath the shattered arm of the crystal chandelier, lay the wounded commander of the assault team—a massive, scarred man with an eastern European insignia embroidered on his tactical vest.
Luca walked down the final three steps of the marble staircase, his shotgun resting casually in the crook of his left arm, his heavy leather boots crushing glass with every step.
He stopped two feet from the dying commander, placing the sole of his boot firmly against the man’s tactical plate.
"Who gave you the internal security codes, Makarov?" Luca asked, his voice chillingly quiet.
The commander spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the white marble, letting out a wheezing, broken laugh:
"Your... your little blonde whore... Bellini," the Russian coughed, his eyes rolling back in his skull. "She had a secondary satellite transceiver in her cosmetic bag... she sold the frequency to our boss in Montreal an hour ago... she told us the maid was the only one guarding the kid..."
Luca didn't flinch.
He didn't shout.
He reached down, pulled his service Beretta from his waistband, and leveled the muzzle between the commander's eyes:
"Tell your boss in Montreal," Luca whispered, "that the maid has a permanent promotion."
Crack.
Luca lowered the weapon, turned around, and looked up the grand staircase.
I was standing on the middle landing, holding the smoking carbine at the low-ready, my Kevlar vest dusted with white plaster, my dark hair falling around my shoulders, my gray eyes meeting his without a single flicker of fear.
Thirty feet below, Marco and the surviving captains of the Chicago Outfit stood in the smoke, staring up at the woman who had just cleared their flank with three headshots.
Don Salvatore stepped out from the ruined dining room, leaning heavily on his carved mahogany cane, his ancient face covered in soot.
He looked at the bodies on the floor, looked at the smoking rifle in my hands, and then looked at his nephew.
"Luca," the old Don rasped, his voice carrying clearly through the shattered gallery.
"Yes, Uncle?" Luca answered, not taking his eyes off me.
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"The Bellini girl was a common peasant with expensive shoes," Salvatore said, tapping his cane against the marble with a solid, echoing thud.
"This one... this one has the blood of a general. If you don't put Maria’s ring on her finger by Sunday morning, I will remove you from the leadership of this family myself."
