Chapter 6 - The Traitor's Table
Before Russo could pull back the hammer on his revolver, the reinforced glass windows of the butcher shop shattered into ten thousand glittering shards.
FLASH-BANG!
A blinding white light and a deafening roar exploded inside the office.
Russo screamed, clutching his ears as he was thrown backward against his desk. The two guards collapsed to the concrete floor, disoriented and blinded by the stun grenade.
Before the smoke could clear, the rear heavy wooden door was kicked off its iron hinges.
Vincent Rossi walked through the smoke like a dark god of vengeance.
He held a suppressed automatic pistol in his right hand. Crack! Crack! Two precise shots neutralized the two guards before they could even draw their weapons.
Vincent didn't pause. He walked straight past the bleeding men, grabbed Frank Russo by the throat, and slammed the heavy mafia boss onto his own mahogany desk, scattering stacks of hundred-dollar bills across the floor.
"Vincent..." Russo gasped, his eyes wide with wild, frantic terror. "Vincent... wait! It was a business deal—"
Vincent didn't answer with words. He jammed the barrel of his pistol directly under Russo’s jawline, leaning in until his cold hazel eyes were inches from Russo’s face.
"You touched my cook," Vincent whispered, his voice a horrifying purr of pure murder. "You put a gun to the head of the woman who keeps me alive."
"I... I didn't know!" Russo sobbed, pissing himself right through his trousers. "Take the docks! Take the money! Just don't kill me!"
Norah rushed over to the corner, pulling the duct tape off Caleb’s mouth and slicing his wrist bindings with a small utility knife she grabbed off the workbench.
"Norah... oh God, Norah!" Caleb cried, falling onto his knees, weeping hysterically. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
"Get up, Caleb," Norah said firmly, pulling her foolish brother to his feet. "We're leaving."
She turned back toward the center of the room.
Vincent still held Russo pinned to the desk. He turned his head slowly, looking at Norah. For a fraction of a second, the lethal, murderous rage in his eyes flickered, replaced by a questioning glance.
He was waiting for her verdict.
Norah looked at Frank Russo—the man who had terrorized her neighborhood, beaten her brother, and tried to poison the man standing before her.
"Don't shoot him, Vincent," Norah said softly.
Russo let out a gasping sob of relief. "Thank you, girl! Thank you—"
"Let the feds have him," Norah finished, her voice cold as steel. "Enzo just uploaded his entire encrypted ledger to the Southern District United States Attorney's Office. In three minutes, twenty federal marshals will be coming through that front door. Let him spend the next forty years in a maximum-security cell watching his empire rot from the inside."
Vincent stared at Norah for two long seconds.
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Then, a low, quiet chuckle escaped his lips. He pulled the gun back from Russo’s jaw, brought the heavy steel butt of the pistol down across Russo’s temple—knocking the loan shark instantly unconscious—and stepped back.
"You heard the lady," Vincent said to Enzo, who was standing near the door with three armed soldiers. "Leave the trash for the government. We're going home."
