Chapter 6 - Bloodlines and Betrayal
The black armored Mercedes Maybach moved like a phantom through the slush and snow of Fifth Avenue, flanked by four black Cadillac Escalades filled with Dante’s most trusted hitmen.
Inside the Maybach, the air was silent save for the hum of the climate control. Clara sat beside Dante, her hands folded in her lap. On the outside, she appeared as calm and immovable as a marble statue, but beneath the silk of her gown, her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Suddenly, Mikhail, sitting in the front passenger seat, tapped his ear-piece. His posture turned rigid.
“Boss,” Mikhail said, turning his head back sharply. “Our scout car at the rear just reported two delivery vans cutting into the convoy. They’re running without headlights.”
Dante didn’t blink. His hand smoothly reached inside his tuxedo jacket, resting on the grip of the custom Kimber 1911 strapped beneath his left arm.
“Julian didn’t wait for the gala,” Dante said, his voice flat.
“No,” Mikhail answered, racking the slide of his automatic weapon with a clean, metallic *clack*. “The Black Ridge contractors. They aren’t trying to protect Julian. They’re trying to prevent Clara from ever reaching the Plaza.”
Before Mikhail could finish his sentence, the heavy steel-reinforced bumper of an unmarked commercial truck smashed into the side of the lead Escalade at the intersection of 58th Street.
The sound was an explosion of twisting metal and shattering safety glass. The lead SUV was shoved sideways, spinning across the snowy asphalt and crashing into a line of parked sedans.
“Brace!” Mikhail roared.
The driver of the Maybach slammed his foot on the accelerator, utilizing the Mercedes’ twin-turbo V12 engine and its three-ton B7 armor rating to ram directly through the barricade. The heavy luxury car shuddered with a sickening crunch as it struck the side of a delivery van, shoving it out of the path like a battering ram.
Automatic gunfire erupted immediately.
*Crack-crack-crack-crack.*
High-caliber rounds peppered the ballistic glass of the Maybach’s passenger windows, leaving spiderwebbed white circles of impact, but the reinforced laminate held.
Clara didn't scream.
Five years in the underbelly of Manhattan had stripped the reflex of panic from her nervous system. When gunshots had rung out in the rail yards between rival gangs, screaming had gotten people killed.
Instead of freezing, Clara dropped instantly to the floorboards of the Maybach, her body compacting into the defensive ball she had perfected over thousands of cold nights.
“Stay down,” Dante growled.
He didn't wait. He rolled down his window two inches—just enough to clear the muzzle of his firearm—and fired four double-taps into the windshield of an advancing SUV that was attempting to pin their rear flank.
The driver of the enemy vehicle slumped forward over the steering wheel, and the SUV veered off course, slamming into a granite light post and exploding into steam.
Two more black sedans belonging to Dante’s secondary security detail screeched into the intersection, their doors flying open. A dozen Serrano enforcers in heavy coats spilled out into the snowy avenue, leveling automatic shotguns and rifles, creating a wall of fire that completely suppressed the Black Ridge mercenaries.
Within ninety seconds, the intersection of 58th Street sounded like a war zone, but the path ahead was clear.
“Drive,” Dante commanded the Maybach’s driver, his voice utterly devoid of emotion as he reloaded his weapon with a smooth, practiced click. “Take the front entrance of the Plaza. Run every light.”
The driver spun the wheel, tires smoking against the icy pavement, and the armored Maybach surged forward onto Grand Army Plaza.
Dante looked down at the floorboards. He reached out with both hands, gently hooking his arms beneath Clara’s shoulders, lifting her back onto the leather seat.
Her obsidian dress was slightly rumpled, but not torn. The sapphire necklace still hung perfectly against her throat.
“You hit?” Dante asked, his eyes sweeping over her with a clinical, intense scrutiny that betrayed his fierce panic for her safety.
“No,” Clara said. Her hazel eyes were wide, but they were burning with a terrifying, white-hot clarity. “Julian knows the watch wasn't a bluff. He’s terrified, Dante. A man who sends shooters into the middle of Fifth Avenue is a man who knows he has already lost.”
Dante wiped a fleck of shattered window glass from her hair, his thumb lingering on her cheekbone.
May you like
“Then let’s go collect the debt,” he said.
***
