Chapter 7 - The Snake's Trap
Damian stood frozen on the bottom step, his body locking into a posture of absolute, lethal tension.
His pistol remained raised, aiming straight at Salvatore's chest, but the presence of his mother held at gunpoint trapped him in a deadly checkmate.
"Put the gun down, Damian," Salvatore said smoothly, casually tapping the barrel of his silver revolver against Rosa's temple. "Or my associate here puts a hole through your dear mother's head before you can pull that trigger."
Rosa made a muffled, desperate sound behind her gag, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at her son, violently shaking her head to tell him not to surrender.
"Salvatore," Damian said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sent chills down my spine. "You step foot in my house, put your filthy hands on my mother, and think you're walking out of here alive?"
"I don't just plan on walking out alive, my boy," Salvatore sneered. "I plan on owning this house by sunrise. Your family's empire ends tonight."
Salvatore's eyes flicked to me, a sickening, predatory smile spreading across his face.
"Ah, and you brought the little waitress," Salvatore chuckled softly. "The pest who ruined my men's clean operation in the alley. You know, Miss Martinez, if you had just minded your own business three nights ago, you'd still be wiping down tables in Pilsen instead of dying in a basement."
"Leave her out of this, Moretti," Damian growled, stepping slightly in front of me. "She has nothing to do with our war."
"She has everything to do with it!" Salvatore barked, his calm demeanor suddenly breaking into jagged fury. "She took the hardware key! She gave you the codes to unlock my offshore accounts! She cost me fifty million dollars!"
Salvatore gestured to his henchmen. "Drop the gun, Damian. Hand over the titanium drive, or I execute your mother right now. I'll give you three seconds."
"One."
Damian's knuckles turned white around the grip of his Sig Sauer.
"Two."
"Damian, don't!" I whispered desperately behind him.
"Three—"
"STOP!" Damian roared, lowering his gun and tossing it onto the concrete floor between them. It clattered loudly, sliding to a stop near Salvatore's shoes. "Take it. Take the drive. It's in my inner jacket pocket."
Salvatore smiled triumphantly, stepping forward while keeping his revolver trained on Damian's heart. "Smart boy. You always were wiser than your father."
He reached out toward Damian's jacket.
That was the mistake he didn't survive to regret.
Damian didn't reach for his pocket. In a flash of terrifying military precision, Damian grabbed Salvatore's extended wrist, twisted it violently outward until the bone snapped with a sickening CRACK, and yanked the Don forward into his knee.
Salvatore shrieked in agony as his revolver dropped to the floor.
Before the two henchmen could react, I didn't think—I just moved.
I grabbed a heavy steel fire extinguisher mounted on the stairwell wall, swung it with every ounce of strength remaining in my body, and slammed it directly into the back of the nearest henchman's head.
The man collapsed like a sack of bricks.
The second henchman turned his shotgun toward me, but Damian was already there.
Damian spun Salvatore's broken body around as a human shield, swept the henchman's legs out from under him, grabbed the fallen pistol from the floor, and fired two precise rounds into the final attacker.
The subterranean hall fell dead silent, save for the heavy sound of our ragged breathing.
Salvatore lay writhing on the concrete, clutching his broken wrist, sobbing in pain.
Damian stood over him, his face illuminated by the red emergency lights, looking like an ancient god of vengeance.
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He didn't hesitate. He pulled out his tactical radio.
"Leo," Damian said calmly into the mic. "The basement is clear. Secure the perimeter and call the federal prosecutor. Tell him we have Don Salvatore Moretti wrapped in a bow, along with thirty years of evidence."
