Chapter 6 - The Corsican Cipher
BANG!
A high-caliber bullet ripped through the leather upholstery of Dominic’s chair, right where his chest had been half a second prior, embedding itself deep into the stone fireplace behind them.
"DOWN!" Marko bellowed, opening fire with his submachine gun from the doorway!
The Great Hall exploded into absolute chaos. Glass shattered, wood splinters flew through the air, and heavy chairs were flipped over as bodyguards drew their weapons and took cover behind the oak table.
Dominic slammed onto the hardwood floor with Maeve pressed beneath him, his heavy body shielding her from the flying glass and stray rounds. He drew his dark-steel pistol, rolled smoothly onto his hip, and fired three rapid shots over the edge of a overturned sofa.
Sergio Rossi’s bodyguard, who had drawn a suppressed pistol from a shoulder rig, caught two rounds in the chest and collapsed backward over the burning birch logs in the fireplace!
"CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!" Matteo Moretti roared, his elderly voice surprisingly powerful as his four personal security guards formed an impenetrable wall of steel around the old man.
Karl Vance and Jean-Luc Duval were both on the floor, their hands raised, their bodyguards standing guard over them with weapons drawn, looking around in utter panic.
Within forty seconds, the gunfire stopped. The Great Hall was filled with the acrid, choking smell of cordite, gunpowder smoke, and burnt wood.
Sergio Rossi was pinned against the glass wall by Marko, a heavy combat boot pressed against his throat, his face red and terrified.
Dominic stood up slowly, reaching down with his left hand to pull Maeve up beside him. His suit was covered in plaster dust, but he was completely unharmed. He looked down at Maeve, whose face was pale, her emerald jacket torn at the shoulder, but her eyes burning with pure, electric focus.
"You saved me again," Dominic said, his breath coming in steady, controlled measures. "What did he say?"
Maeve smoothed her hair back, her voice ringing clearly across the smoke-filled room.
"Corsican dialect," Maeve said, pointing at Sergio. "'The funeral is prepared. Fire the barrel.' It's an old maritime assassination signal used by smuggler crews in Bastia."
Dominic walked slowly toward his cousin, his leather shoes crunching over broken glass. He stopped in front of Sergio, looking down at him with a dark, terrible finality.
"You," Dominic whispered. "It wasn't Silvio leading this. Silvio was just an old man looking for a payout. You were the one planning the funeral."
"Dominic... please!" Sergio wept, coughing against Marko's boot. "It wasn't just me! Duval promised me forty percent of the northern Quebec transit routes if I eliminated you today!"
At the far end of the room, Jean-Luc Duval’s face turned gray.
"Liar!" Duval shouted in French.
"He's not lying," Maeve called out smoothly in flawless, elegant Parisian French, stepping forward beside Dominic. "Monsieur Duval, two minutes ago you told Matteo Moretti that your Marseille shipment was already passing through Quebec. You didn't come here to negotiate a peace. You came here to witness a funeral you funded."
Duval froze, his eyes widening in horror as every single eyes in the room—including old Matteo Moretti’s—turned slowly toward him.
Old Matteo stood up, adjusting his dark tie. He looked at Duval, then at Dominic, and finally at Maeve Nolan standing in her dusty emerald suit.
"Dominic," Matteo said quietly in heavy Sicilian Italian. "Who is this woman?"
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Dominic reached out, taking Maeve’s hand in his, his fingers wrapping firmly and protective around her calloused palm.
"This is Maeve Nolan," Dominic announced to the surviving leaders of the syndicate. "She is the voice of the Rossi family. And as long as she is standing beside me, none of you will ever lie in this room again."
