Chapter 5 - The Snake in the House
The gunfight lasted less than three minutes.
By the time the police sirens began wailing in the distance, four of the attackers lay dead on the blood-stained carpet, while the remaining two were pinned to the floor by Dawson’s security team.
Dawson stood in the center of the ruined ballroom, his tuxedo jacket torn, his white shirt splattered with dark blood, holding his smoking gun. He turned his head slowly, searching the smoke-filled room until his eyes landed on me standing safely behind the bar.
He let out a long breath, holstered his weapon, and marched straight toward me.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, taking my face in his heavy, warm hands, inspecting my neck and shoulders for any sign of blood. "Clara, answer me!"
"I'm fine, Dawson," I breathed, my hands resting against his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart. "I'm okay."
Vittorio Moretti approached us, surrounded by five armed bodyguards. The old man looked grim, his grey eyes fixed on the masked faces of the dead attackers lying near the entrance.
"The Russo family," Vittorio growled, kicking one of the dead gunman's weapons away. "They are getting desperate."
"This wasn't the Russos," Dawson said coldly, pulling off his bloodied silk tie. "The Russos don't use military-grade suppressed carbines. And they certainly don't know the private security entry codes for the Drake Hotel's service elevator."
I looked down at the floor near the bar, where Marco Moretti was standing, wiping a small drop of sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
My mind raced back to what Marco had said to me just seconds before the doors shattered: When a wild dog gets cornered, it bites everyone.
"Dawson," I whispered, stepping closer to his side. "The service elevator codes were updated this afternoon at 4:00 PM. Who had access to the security logs?"
Dawson’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. He turned his gaze slowly toward his cousin Marco.
"Only three people," Dawson said softly, his voice dropping into a deadly register. "My father. Me. And Marco."
Marco’s smile vanished. He stepped back nervously, pointing a trembling finger at me. "Dawson, you're going to listen to this waitress? She's an outsider! Her father owes money all over the South Side—she could have sold those codes to pay off her family debt!"
Dawson took one fast, terrifying step toward Marco, snatching him by his throat and slamming him violently against the marble pillar!
"If you ever mention her father again," Dawson hissed, his knuckles turning white around Marco's neck, "I will feed you to the fish in Lake Michigan. Who paid you, Marco?!"
"It was... it was Don Carmine!" Marco choked out, his eyes bulging with terror. "He promised me twenty percent of the harbor trade if I helped him eliminate Uncle Vittorio before the succession vote!"
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Vittorio stepped forward, looking at his nephew with cold, unspeakable disappointment.
"Take him to the basement on 5th Street," Vittorio ordered his head guard. "We will discuss his loyalty later."
