Chapter 4 - THE THREAT AT THE GATE
The peace lasted exactly eleven days.
On the last Friday of February, an unseasonable fog rolled in off the Long Island Sound at two o'clock in the afternoon, swallowing the estate in a thick, gray soup that reduced visibility to less than thirty yards.
The trees became ghostly silhouettes; the iron gates vanished into the gloom; and the sound of distant foghorns from passing freighters drifted across the property like the groans of dying beasts.
In the sunroom, the air was warm and smelled of freshly baked orange scones that Sophia had brought down from the kitchen.
Isabella and Emma were sitting on a large sheepskin rug near the glass doors. Emma was busy constructing an elaborate "castle" out of colored wooden blocks, while Isabella directed the construction from her position on the floor—a position she had insisted on taking despite Victoria’s horrified protests.
"The tower needs to be higher," Isabella said, pointing a slender finger at a blue block. "Or the dragons will jump over the wall."
"My dragons don't jump," Emma said, carefully placing a green triangle on top of the blue block. "They eat pancakes and go to sleep."
"Dragons don't eat pancakes, Emma!"
"Mine do," Emma insisted. "They like maple syrup."
In the kitchen down the hall, Sophia was carefully drying crystal wine glasses, her mind at ease for the first time in months. Her daughter was fed, warm, and happy; her job was secure; and Mr. Duca had even ordered that a small piano be moved into Isabella’s room so the girls could take music lessons together in the spring.
The sharp, loud crack of a gunshot shattered the afternoon quiet.
It was not the distant pop of a backfiring truck. It was the distinct, heavy THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of a high-caliber automatic weapon firing from the direction of the service gate.
Sophia dropped the crystal glass she was holding. It shattered into a thousand glittering shards against the tile floor.
"EMMA!" Sophia screamed, her voice tearing her throat as she bolted out of the kitchen and sprinted down the hallway toward the sunroom.
At the same instant, the estate’s emergency klaxon began to wail—a low, terrifying horn that echoed through every room in the mansion.
Red strobe lights flashed along the corridors as the automated security system went into high containment mode. Thick steel blast shutters began to descend over the large glass windows of the ground floor with a heavy, mechanical roar.
Inside the security room, Marco was already on his feet, three radios buzzing simultaneously on his belt.
"Report!" Marco bellowed into his handset.
"Breach at the service gate!" Tommy’s voice screamed through static, accompanied by the loud rattle of gunfire in the background. "Two delivery vans! They rammed the iron gate! At least six men... heavy weapons... body armor!"
"Hold the line, Tommy!" Marco roared. "Frankie, drop the secondary perimeter grilles! Lock down the main house now!"
Lorenzo descended the grand staircase five steps at a time.
He was no longer wearing his wool coat or custom suit jacket. He wore a black tactical vest over his white shirt, a twin-magazine pouch slung across his chest, and an iron-gray MP5 submachine gun held high against his right shoulder.
His face was completely devoid of fear—it was a mask of cold, ancient, murderous rage.
"Where are the children?" Lorenzo demanded as Marco met him at the foot of the stairs.
"Sunroom," Marco said, pulling his own assault rifle from a concealed cabinet behind a tapestry. "Sophia went to get them. Blast shutters are coming down now."
"Get them to the safe room under the wine cellar!" Lorenzo commanded, his voice slicing through the blare of the security siren. "Take four men with you! I will hold the central gallery!"
"Boss, you can't stand in the open—"
"Do what I tell you, Marco!" Lorenzo shouted, his eyes blazing with a terrifying light. "If a single bullet comes near my daughter or that child, I will kill every man in this house myself!"
In the sunroom, the heavy steel shutter was descending rapidly, cutting off the dim gray light of the fog outside.
Sophia burst through the double doors, her eyes wide with terror, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Emma! Isabella!" Sophia sobbed, sprinting across the sheepskin rug and throwing her arms around both girls.
Isabella was trembling violently, her little hands clutching Sophia’s apron. "Sophia... what is that noise? Is it the thunder?"
"Yes, my love! Just thunder!" Sophia lied desperately, scooping Emma up in her left arm and pulling Isabella toward her wheelchair. "We have to go with Marco now! We have to play a hiding game!"
Emma looked at her mother’s terrified face, then at the heavy steel shutter that had just slammed shut against the stone sill with a deafening CRASH.
"My wooden spoon..." Emma whimpered, reaching back toward the wooden blocks on the floor. "I left my spoon..."
"Leave it, Emma!" Sophia cried, hoisting Isabella into her arms with a strength she didn't know she possessed, leaving the wheelchair behind.
Marco and two heavily armed security guards burst into the sunroom.
"Move! Move! Move!" Marco shouted, covering their retreat with his rifle raised toward the courtyard windows. "To the cellar doors! Go!"
They ran through the service corridors, the sound of splintering wood, breaking glass, and heavy gunfire echoing from the front of the mansion. The Moretti crew had breached the heavy front doors with an explosive charge, filling the grand foyer with smoke, dust, and the acrid smell of cordite.
In the central gallery, Lorenzo stood behind a thick marble column, his MP5 raised to his eye.
Through the haze of plaster dust, he saw four men in tactical jackets advancing across the Persian rug, their automatic weapons spraying bullets into the wood paneling, shattering nineteenth-century paintings and porcelain vases.
"DUCA!" a young, harsh voice screamed through the smoke. It was Nicky Moretti—Salvatore’s nephew—holding a modified AK-47, his face distorted by a manic, drug-fueled grin. "WHERE IS YOUR DAUGHTER, DUCA? WE CAME TO GIVE HER A PAIR OF NEW LEGS!"
Lorenzo didn't answer with words.
He stepped out from behind the marble column, settled the stock of his MP5 against his shoulder, and fired a controlled five-round burst.
The first three rounds struck Nicky Moretti’s chest, shattering his body armor; the fourth and fifth caught him in the throat and jaw.
Nicky folded like a empty suit of clothes, dropping his rifle, hitting the marble floor with a heavy, wet thud.
The other three attackers spun around, spraying gunfire toward Lorenzo’s position. Bullets chipped heavy chunks of marble from the column, showering Lorenzo’s face with gray dust, but he did not flinch.
He ducked low, rolled across the floor to the base of the grand staircase, pulled a flashbang grenade from his vest, pulled the pin with his teeth, and tossed it into the center of the gallery.
BANG!
A blinding flash of white light and a two-hundred-decibel concussion wave shook the room.
The remaining three men stumbled backward, clutching their ears, blinded and disoriented.
Lorenzo stood up smoothly, walked forward through the smoke like a dark phantom, and delivered three precise, single shots to their foreheads.
The gallery fell instantly silent, save for the crackle of burning drapery and the steady wail of the security siren.
Lorenzo stood over the four fallen men, his barrel smoking, his chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic breaths.
Marco ran into the gallery, his face covered in sweat and powder burn.
"The perimeter is clear, Boss!" Marco reported breathlessly. "Tommy and the gate team eliminated the two trucks outside! It’s over!"
Lorenzo lowered his weapon. He didn't look at the dead men on his floor.
"The children?" Lorenzo asked, his voice dead pan, cold, terrifying.
"They are in the safe room with Sophia," Marco said. "Uncut. Not a scratch."
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Lorenzo dropped his empty magazine onto the floor, pulled a fresh twenty-round clip from his vest, and slapped it into the receiver with a sharp clack.
"Call the Mayor," Lorenzo said softly, turning to walk toward the cellar stairs. "Tell him the pier eighteen agreement is canceled. And tell him that by sunrise tomorrow, there will no longer be a Moretti family in the state of New York."
