Chapter 9 - The Reckoning
"Gabriel!" Elena’s cry cut through the sound of shattering glass and echoing gunfire.
Gabriel rounded the corner of the brick wall, his weapon raised, but stopped dead in his tracks. The sight of Don Falcone holding a gun to Elena’s head did what no federal indictment, no rival army, and no assassination attempt had ever managed to do.
It made Gabriel Moretti experience absolute, paralyzing fear.
"Drop the gun, Moretti," Falcone sneered, backing away toward the open doors of one of the vans, dragging Elena with him. She struggled against his grip, her boots digging into the gravel, but the old man held her tight. "Drop it, or I paint these white roses with her blood."
Gabriel looked at Elena. Her brown eyes were wide, but she wasn't screaming. She was shaking her head, a silent command for him not to give in to the blackmail. She was willing to die to protect his empire.
And in that split second, Gabriel realized that the empire didn't mean a damn thing without her.
He slowly lowered his arm, opening his fingers to let the semi-automatic pistol clatter onto the concrete floor. He raised his hands in surrender.
"Let her go, Falcone," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a register that was no longer cold, but dead—the sound of a man who had already crossed the River Styx. "You want the docks? They're yours. You want the import lines? Take them. Sign the papers, take the city, but leave the girl."
Falcone laughed, a harsh, rattling sound. "You really are soft, boy. Your father would have shot through her to get to me. You're a disgrace to your bloodline."
As Falcone turned his head slightly to signal his remaining men to secure Gabriel, Elena saw her chance. She remembered what Gabriel had told her about survival—that fear was a weapon you could turn back on your attacker.
She brought her heavy winter boot down onto Falcone's instep with all her weight, simultaneously driving her uninjured elbow backward into the old man's ribs.
Falcone gasped, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
That was all the time Gabriel needed.
He didn't need a gun. He crossed the fifteen feet of concrete like a shadow, his massive frame slamming into Falcone with the force of a freight train. They hit the gravel together, the silver revolver spinning away into a bed of ferns.
Gabriel pinned the old Don to the earth, his large hands wrapping around Falcone's throat, his face a mask of terrifying, primal fury. "You touched her," Gabriel whispered, his voice shaking with the desire to end the man’s life right there in the dirt. "You brought your war to my wife."
"Gabriel, stop!" Elena cried, rushing to his side, her hands wrapping around his thick wrists. "Don't do it. Don't become what they want you to be. The police are already coming. Marco is here."
The distant wail of sirens echoed through the suburban trees, accompanied by the screech of Marco's reinforcement SUVs breaching the perimeter. Gabriel looked up from Falcone’s gasping face into Elena’s eyes. The bloodlust that had consumed him since the first gunshot began to recede, washed away by the calm, steady love in her gaze.
May you like
He slowly released his grip, standing up and pulling Elena into his arms, burying his face in her hair as his soldiers flooded the garden to round up the surviving hitmen.
"I’ve got you," Gabriel whispered, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the confrontation. "I’ve got you. It's over."
