Chapter 6 - The Strike
The ballroom fell dead silent. The air grew so thick with tension you could cut it with a knife.
Dominic Falcone’s smirk flickered for a fraction of a second before he recovered his composure. “Always the dramatic one, Vincent. I came to celebrate peace.”
Suddenly, every light in the Grand Ballroom went completely black.
Gasps and shrieks echoed through the massive room. Emergency red backup lights flickered on three seconds later, casting a bloody, crimson glow over the panicked crowd.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The muffled crack of suppressed gunshots shattered the air. Society elites screamed, scrambling over tables and throwing themselves onto the marble floor as chaos erupted.
“Get Ethan out!” Vincent roared, drawing a heavy silver firearm from beneath his tuxedo jacket in one fluid, terrifying motion.
Silas grabbed the handles of Ethan’s wheelchair, turning it sharply toward the private service exit behind the main stage. “Lily, stay behind me!”
Before we could reach the door, it flew open.
Paul stood in the doorway, armed with a tactical submachine gun, flanked by three Falcone mercenaries in black tactical gear.
“Going somewhere, Silas?” Paul sneered, raising his weapon. “The Falcone family sends its regards.”
“Traitor!” Silas spat, drawing his own pistol.
A hail of bullets tore through the doorframe. Silas took a hit to his shoulder, stumbling backward into a stack of champagne flutes that shattered across the floor. He dropped his gun, clutching his bleeding chest.
Ethan whimpered in his chair, completely defenseless.
Paul stepped over Silas’s groaning form, leveling his submachine gun directly at Ethan’s head. “Sorry, kid. Nothing personal. Just business.”
Time seemed to slow down.
I didn't have a weapon. I didn't have armor. But I had spent eight months surviving on the streets of New York by being fast, vicious, and unpredictable.
I grabbed a heavy brass floor-standing microphone pole from the stage beside me, swung it with every ounce of strength in my body, and slammed the heavy iron base straight into the side of Paul’s knee.
Snap.
Paul let out a blood-curdling scream as his kneecap shattered. He collapsed onto the marble floor, dropping his submachine gun.
Before the two mercenaries behind him could react, a heavy shadow loomed over the doorway.
Vincent stepped into the hallway like an vengeful demon out of hell.
Crack. Crack.
Two shots. Two clean headshots. The two Falcone mercenaries collapsed instantly, dead before they hit the ground.
Vincent walked up to Paul, who was writhing on the floor, clutching his shattered leg and gasping for air. Vincent placed the polished leather sole of his shoe squarely on Paul’s throat, slowly pressing down.
“You broke my son’s spine,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute death. “And you tried to execute him in front of me.”
“Vincent... please... Dominic promised me—” Paul choked out, his eyes bulging with terror.
“Dominic is already dead,” Vincent replied coldly. “My men secured the ballroom three seconds after the lights went out.”
Crack.
Vincent squeezed the trigger without an ounce of hesitation.
He lowered his weapon, turned around, and looked at me. I was standing there, breathless, clutching the heavy brass microphone stand, my velvet gown stained with champagne and glass dust.
Vincent walked over to Ethan, checked his pulse, and then turned his dark eyes back to me.
“You swung a brass pole at an armed assassin,” Vincent said, his voice carrying a mixture of disbelief and profound respect.
“He was going to hurt Ethan,” I panted, wiping a streak of sweat from my forehead.
May you like
Vincent gently took the microphone stand from my hands, set it aside, and pulled me into a brief, powerful embrace.
“You’re not just a guest in my house anymore, Lily,” Vincent whispered against my hair. “You are a Moretti.”
