Chapter 3 - Blood on the 42nd Floor
11:38 p.m.
Evelyn Whitaker had fled down the service stairs ten minutes ago, terrified of both her husband’s bloodlust and Dante’s vengeance.
Inside the main living room of the penthouse, the atmosphere was transformed into an executive command center. Dante stood by the central kitchen island, an encrypted radio pressed to his ear while his thumb flew across his phone screen.
Despite the short timeframe, Dante Moretti was not a man who was easily cornered.
“Lorenzo,” Dante spoke into the radio, his tone crisp and commanding. “Activate Contingency Delta. The lobby guards on shift two are traitors. Send the secondary tactical team up through the freight shaft. Block the underground parking exits.”
“Understood, Boss,” Lorenzo’s deep voice crackled back through the speaker. “We have eighty seconds before the private elevator power is cut. We’re coming up behind them.”
Dante set the radio down and turned toward Elena.
She was sitting on the leather sofa, holding a small silver hand-gun Dante had given her five minutes earlier. She didn't look like the timid, distant woman who had spent three years reading books in the corner of his house. She looked sharp, focused, and fiercely determined.
Dante walked over and knelt in front of her, resting his hands over hers on the grip of the weapon.
“You know how to use this?” he asked.
“You left it in your nightstand three months ago when you thought I was asleep,” Elena said, offering a faint, brave smile. “I checked the safety four times when you walked out of the room.”
Dante let out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “All those times I thought I was keeping secrets from you...”
“You were terrible at it,” she whispered.
Dante’s smile faded, replaced by an overwhelming tenderness. He reached up, cupping her jaw with his large hand. “When this is over tonight, Elena, we are going to talk about everything. Every single day of the last three years.”
“I’d like that,” she murmured, leaning her cheek into his palm.
At 11:44 p.m., the main lights of the penthouse flickered once, twice, and then died completely.
The backup generators clicked on two seconds later, casting the grand room in a dim, crimson emergency glow. The heavy metallic hum of the private elevator echoed down the hallway as it reached the forty-second floor.
“Stay behind the island,” Dante ordered softly, stepping back and pulling a custom matte-black pistol from his shoulder holster.
The heavy glass doors of the private elevator slid open.
Six heavily armed mercenaries in unmarked black tactical gear stepped into the foyer, their suppressed rifles raised, sweeping the room. The lead operative raised a hand, signaling his team toward the master bedroom corridor.
They believed Dante was sleeping alone in his room, completely unaware that his security system had been compromised.
They were wrong.
Dante stepped out from behind a marble pillar.
Before the lead operative could swing his barrel, Dante fired three quick, precise shots. The silenced pops echoed sharply in the room. The lead man and the operative behind him dropped instantly to the floor.
“Ambush!” the third mercenary yelled, diving behind the leather sofa.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the dark living room as the remaining four hitmen opened fire. Glass shattered, leather tore, and plaster rained down from the high ceiling. Dante rolled behind the marble kitchen island, returning fire with lethal precision.
From the service vestibule behind the kitchen, the heavy steel doors burst open. Lorenzo and four of Dante’s elite personal guards flooded into the penthouse, catching Raymond Cole’s hit squad in a deadly crossfire.
Within ninety seconds, the gunfight was over.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of rainfall and the steady, rhythmic breathing of Dante’s men clearing the floor.
Lorenzo walked over, kicking a weapon away from a downed mercenary. He looked at Dante, then spotted Elena standing behind the marble counter, holding her handgun with steady hands.
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Lorenzo blinked in utter shock. “Mrs. Moretti... you’re here?”
“She’s not going anywhere, Lorenzo,” Dante said, his voice echoing with absolute authority as he reloaded his weapon. He walked over to Elena, pulling her into his side. “Call the clean-up team. And tell the street captains that Arthur Whitaker and Raymond Cole have until sunrise before I burn their entire network to the ground.”
