Chapter 5 - The Snake's Lair
The storm reached its peak at two in the morning over the dense pine forests of southern New Jersey.
A isolated hunting lodge, hidden three miles deep into a dirt service road, was surrounded by six black SUVs with their headlights doused.
Inside the lodge, Salvatore Vitiello paced nervously across a faded rug, holding a tumbler of cheap whiskey. Two heavily armed guards sat near the door, cleaning their rifles.
"Why hasn't Marcone called back?" Salvatore spat, tossing his drink into the stone fireplace. "He was supposed to confirm the commission's vote by midnight!"
"Marcone isn't calling you back, Uncle," a voice echoed from the shadowed porch outside.
BOOM!
The heavy oak door was blown off its hinges by a breach charge.
Wood splinters and dust filled the living room as four flashbang grenades detonated simultaneously, blinding the guards.
Dominic walked through the smoke like an executioner. He moved with terrifying speed, firing two suppressed rounds into the chests of both guards before they could raise their weapons.
Salvatore dropped his whiskey glass, scrambling backward toward his desk, reaching for a revolver tucked into the top drawer.
Dominic caught Salvatore by his hair, dragging his older uncle across the oak desk, smashing his face into the wood. Papers, empty bottles, and glass shattered under the impact.
"Dominic! Wait! Wait!" Salvatore screamed, blood pouring from his broken nose. "Listen to me! It was Marcone! Marcone told me to do it! He wanted you dead so he could take the docks!"
Dominic pulled Salvatore up by his collar, pressing his heavy pistol directly beneath Salvatore’s chin.
"You lied to me," Dominic growled, his breath hot against his uncle's bloody ear. "You made me doubt my wife. You made me throw the only person who truly cared about my life out into a storm."
"She's a whore!" Salvatore choked out, his eyes wild with terror. "She was sleeping with Castillion! She sold you out—!"
BANG.
Dominic didn't let him finish the sentence.
The gunshot echoed through the small cabin, instantly cutting off Salvatore’s words. Salvatore’s body went limp, collapsing onto the ruined desk.
Dominic stood over his uncle's corpse, his breathing heavy, his suit speckled with fresh crimson. He lowered his weapon, looking out through the shattered doorway at the dark, rain-soaked forest.
Mateo walked into the cabin, stepping over the dead guards, looking at Salvatore. "It's done, Boss."
"Burn it," Dominic said flatly, tossing his weapon onto the desk beside his uncle. "Burn the whole place to the ground. Leave nothing behind."
"And Marcone?" Mateo asked. "Salvatore said—"
"Marcone was lying to save his skin," Dominic said, stepping out onto the wet porch. "Meline already exposed his ledgers to the council. Marcone has no power left. He will spend the rest of his days hiding in Florida, waiting for a bullet that will never come because he isn't worth the lead."
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Dominic walked out into the freezing rain, letting the cold water wash the blood off his face and hands.
For the first time in his life, the violence didn't bring him a sense of victory or control. It brought him nothing but a desperate, consuming hunger to return to East 73rd Street—to see if the woman he loved would ever let him hold her again.
