Chapter 5 - The Flame in the Tower
Before Marco could pull the trigger, the entire penthouse went pitch black.
Vincent, operating from the maintenance bypass inside the elevator shaft, had severed the main power grid to the forty-second floor.
In the blinding, absolute darkness of the high-rise penthouse, screams and chaotic gunfire erupted instantly.
The five mercenaries, unaccustomed to operating in complete light deprivation, panicked, firing blindly into the shadows. The muzzle flashes illuminated the room in violent, stroboscopic bursts of yellow light.
Aleandro didn't need light. He knew every square inch of his penthouse like the palm of his hand.
He dropped low beneath the first burst of automatic fire, sliding across the slick marble floor. He came up behind the nearest gunman, grabbing the barrel of the assault rifle, twisting it upward, and driving his combat knife through the man’s tactical vest.
Before the second gunman could acquire his target, Aleandro used the first man’s body as a human shield, firing three precise shots into the second mercenary’s chest.
"Shoot him! Shoot him!" Marco screamed in the dark, frantic footsteps echoing as he scrambled toward the private balcony doors.
Two more gunshots boomed through the dark, followed by the heavy thuds of falling bodies.
Within forty-five seconds, the heavy gunfire ceased. The only sound remaining in the vast, dark penthouse was the heavy, ragged breathing of Marco Bellini as he struggled to open the emergency lock on the glass terrace door.
Suddenly, the backup generators kicked in with a low, mechanical hum.
The emergency floor strip-lights illuminated the penthouse in a soft, crimson glow.
Marco turned around, his back pressed against the cold glass of the balcony window, his silver revolver shaking violently in his hands.
Standing five feet away, illuminated by the blood-red emergency lights, was Aleandro Moretti.
His charcoal suit was torn, stained with his own blood and the blood of his enemies. His SIG Sauer was held firmly in his right hand, pointed directly between Marco’s eyes.
"Aleandro... wait..." Marco gasped, his voice cracking with terror as he realized all five of his elite mercenaries lay motionless on the marble floor. "We're brothers! We built this together! You can't kill me!"
"You aimed a weapon at my daughter, Marco," Aleandro said, his voice flat, hollow, and absolute. "You surrendered your right to be called my brother the second you put a price on her head."
"She's a distraction!" Marco wept, dropping to his knees, throwing his silver revolver onto the floor. "She will ruin everything we worked for! The Commission will use her against you!"
"There is no Commission," Aleandro revealed cold-bloodedly. "I turned over the Commission's offshore account ledgers to the federal authorities two hours ago. By tomorrow morning, every boss in New York will be in custody or fleeing the country. The empire is over, Marco. I am dismantling it all."
Marco stared at him in utter, uncomprehending shock. "You... you destroyed the family business?! For a child?!"
"I destroyed a disease," Aleandro corrected smoothly. "To build a life."
Aleandro stepped forward. He didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger once.
The crack of the gunshot echoed off the panoramic glass, followed by the soft sound of Marco Bellini collapsing against the window pane, sliding down into the red emergency light.
Aleandro stood alone in the quiet penthouse. He lowered his weapon, his chest heaving as his erratic heart pounded violently against his ribs. Pain flared through his shoulder and chest, forcing him to drop to one knee beside his desk.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand over his heart, fighting the dark spots dancing across his vision.
Not yet, he told himself savagely. You don't get to die yet, Aleandro. She's waiting for you.
The elevator chime rang through the silence as the secondary power fully restored.
The doors slid open, and Vincent stepped out, followed closely by Sarah, who was holding a crying Lily in her arms.
"Aleandro!" Sarah screamed, seeing him kneeling in the middle of the ruined room.
She ran across the marble floor, dropping to her knees beside him, wrapping her arms around his uninjured shoulder.
Aleandro looked up through fading vision. He reached out his trembling, blood-stained hand, but stopped inches from Lily’s face, not wanting to stain her bright red coat.
"I'm clean, tiny one," he gasped softly, tears cutting clean tracks through the dust on his face. "The bad men are gone."
Lily reached out with her small hand, brushing aside his bloody wrist, and wrapped her tiny fingers firmly around his hand.
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"I don't care about the red paint, Daddy," Lily sobbed, pressing her forehead against his jaw. "Just don't leave again."
Aleandro pulled them both into his chest, burying his face in his daughter's curls, weeping openly as the morning sun began to break over the New York skyline.
