Chapter 6 - The Siege at the Social Club
The air inside the social club turned thick with white drywall dust and the acrid stench of burnt gunpowder. Windows were shattering, chairs were splintering, and the screams of wounded men rang out over the thunderous rhythm of high-caliber rifles.
"They brought six men!" Tony yelled over the din, reloading his magazine behind a overturned marble table. "They came in a delivery van!"
I peeked around the side of my desk. Through the dust, I saw three shooters advancing down the narrow hallway, firing systematically into every doorway. Leading them was Frankie Moretti, wearing a leather jacket, a wild, manic grin pasted across his face.
"Where are you, old man?" Frankie screamed, raising an Uzi and spraying a burst into the ceiling. "Come out and hand over Queens!"
My men in the front room were lying dead or severely wounded on the floor. It was just me, Tony, and Bruno trapped in the back office.
"Tony," I whispered, holding up three fingers. "On three, you flash the hall. I take the guy on the left."
"What about the dog?" Tony asked, his eyes wide with fear.
"Bruno knows what to do," I said.
I looked at Bruno. The dog was crouched low to the floor, his muscles coiled like steel springs, his dark eyes glowing through the haze of smoke. He didn't bark. He was waiting for the tension to break.
"One," I counted.
"Two."
"Three!"
Tony leaned out from behind the pillar, firing four rapid shots down the narrow corridor. One of Frankie's guards fell backwards, clutching his shoulder.
In that split second of confusion, Bruno moved.
He didn't run; he flew across the slick wooden floor like a black missile. He bypassed the first shooter entirely, leaping straight over a fallen chair and slamming his full hundred-and-twenty-pound frame into Frankie Moretti’s chest.
Frankie let out a choked gasp as he hit the wall hard, his weapon knocked loose and spinning across the floor. Bruno's massive jaws clamped onto Frankie’s gun arm, his teeth sinking deep into the leather jacket and muscle beneath.
Frankie screamed in sheer agony. "GET IT OFF ME! KILL THE DOG! KILL IT!"
The second shooter turned his rifle toward Bruno, aiming directly at the dog's ribcage.
"NO!" I roared, stepping out into the open hallway and raising my .45 revolver.
I squeezed the trigger twice. The heavy bullets struck the shooter in the chest, dropping him instantly to the floor. Tony took down the remaining guard with a precise shot to the head.
The deafening noise of gunfire suddenly stopped, replaced by the loud, agonized shrieks of Frankie Moretti pinned to the floor under Bruno's crushing weight.
"Brun! Hold!" I commanded loudly.
Bruno froze. He didn't release his bite, but he stopped crushing the bone, keeping Frankie completely immobilized. The boy's face was pale, covered in sweat and tears, his eyes filled with absolute terror as he stared up into the face of the massive beast hovering inches over his face.
I walked down the hallway, stepping over the debris and body casings, and stood over Arthur Moretti’s son.
"You brought a circus to my house, Frankie," I said, my voice cold and calm.
"Please... please don't let him eat me..." Frankie wept, his body shaking uncontrollably. "My dad sent me! He said you were weak! He said you killed Marco and were coming for us!"
I leaned down, grabbing Frankie by his collar. "Your father lied to you. Just like he lied to Marco. He uses young fools like you to fight his battles while he drinks scotch in Long Island."
I looked at Tony. "Call Arthur Moretti. Put him on speaker."
Tony dialed the number and held his phone out.
Arthur’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and anxious. "Frankie? Is it done?"
"Arthur," I said softly into the microphone.
There was a long, agonizing pause on the line. "Sal?"
"Your son is lying on the floor of my social club," I said. "My dog currently has his teeth wrapped around his arm. One word from me, and Frankie never uses his right hand again."
"Sal... please," Arthur’s voice broke, all his cool confidence evaporating in an instant. "He's just a boy. Don't hurt him. I'll give you whatever you want. The entire waterfront. Brooklyn. Just let my boy go."
"You came into my city, Arthur," I said. "You caused the death of an innocent child, and then you sent your son to finish your mess. You are done in New York. Pack your bags, take your family, and leave the state by midnight. If I see a single Moretti in this city tomorrow, I won't call. I'll just send Bruno."
"We'll leave," Arthur sobbed through the phone. "We're gone. Just spare him."
I hung up the phone and looked down at Frankie. "Bruno. Release."
Bruno immediately opened his jaws and stepped back, standing proudly by my side. Frankie scrambled backward against the wall, clutching his bloody, punctured arm, crying like a child.
May you like
"Get out of my sight," I said.
Frankie didn't need to be told twice. He pushed himself up and stumbled out the shattered front door into the afternoon sun, leaving his dead guards behind.
