Chapter 6 - The Unbroken Dawn
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The gunfire shattered the quiet night inside the Moretti estate, the deafening blasts echoing through the marble halls.
Lorenzo didn't hesitate.
The moment Marco’s finger touched the trigger, Lorenzo dove sideways behind a heavy marble pillar near the staircase. Muzzle flashes illuminated the dark hallway as high-caliber rounds tore through the plaster, showering him in white dust and stone splinters.
Lorenzo drew his suppressed Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion.
He leaned out from behind the pillar and fired three rapid shots.
PUB! PUB! PUB!
The first two rounds struck the guard on Marco’s left directly in the chest, dropping him instantly to the hardwood floor. The third round took out the second guard before he could adjust his aim.
"Flank him!" Marco screamed, firing a burst from his rifle toward the pillar. "Don't let him reach the security control room!"
Lorenzo dropped low, rolling across the open floor into the doorway of the dining room. Glass from the crystal chandelier rained down around him as Marco’s remaining two guards rushed the entrance.
Lorenzo rose from the floor like a shadow.
He grabbed the barrel of the third guard’s weapon, twisted it upward into the man’s throat, and fired two rounds into his side. As the man collapsed, Lorenzo used his body as a human shield against a spray of bullets from the fourth guard.
Lorenzo pushed the dead guard forward, stepped around him, and placed a single round between the fourth guard’s eyes.
Four men down in less than twenty seconds.
Silence returned to the hallway, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of Marco Vance, who had retreated toward the grand foyer near the main entrance.
Lorenzo stepped out of the dining room, his suit covered in plaster dust, his gun held steady in front of him.
Marco stood near the heavy oak front doors, his rifle jammed, his tactical vest stained with sweat. He pulled his sidearm from his holster with a shaking hand, holding it out toward Lorenzo.
"Stay back!" Marco yelled, his voice cracking with panic. "I have twenty more men outside, Lorenzo! They report to me! You can't leave this house alive!"
Lorenzo kept walking toward him, his footsteps steady, measured, and unstoppable.
"Your men outside are already dead, Marco," Lorenzo said calmly. "My private security team from Detroit took control of the gates twenty minutes ago."
Marco’s eyes went wide with pure terror. He backed up against the heavy oak doors, his hand shaking so violently the gun wobbled in his grip.
"Lorenzo... please!" Marco begged, tears of terror mixing with the sweat on his face. "We were brothers! Eleven years! I made a mistake—Alvarez forced me into it!"
"You stood at my wife's grave, Marco," Lorenzo said, stopping three feet in front of him. "You carried my son's casket."
"I'm sorry! God forgive me, I'm sorry!" Marco wept, dropping his gun to the floor with a clatter.
Lorenzo looked at the man who had stolen his life, his family, and three years of his sanity.
He didn't scream. He didn't show anger.
"God might forgive you," Lorenzo whispered. "I won't."
PUB.
A single suppressed round cut through the air.
Marco Vance collapsed against the oak door, his eyes rolling back as he slid down onto the marble floor, motionless.
Lorenzo stood alone in the quiet foyer.
He lowered his weapon, engaged the safety, and tucked it back into his shoulder holster. He walked over to the front door, pushed it open, and stepped out onto the wide stone terrace.
The storm had passed.
Far off in the distance, high above the dark waters of Lake Michigan, the faint sound of a helicopter’s rotors echoed through the clear night sky, carrying Sophia and Emma toward safety in the north.
In the eastern horizon, the dark blue night was slowly giving way to a thin, brilliant band of gold and pink sunrise.
Lorenzo leaned against the stone balustrade, taking a deep, clean breath of cold autumn air into his lungs. For the first time in three long years, the heavy, crushing weight in his chest was gone.
The ghost was gone.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed a key to connect to his head lieutenant in Miami.
"Boss?" the lieutenant answered instantly.
"Gather the captains," Lorenzo commanded, his voice filled with an absolute, unshakeable strength that resonated across the quiet terrace. "We go to Miami at noon. It's time to pay Julian Alvarez a visit."
He hung up the phone, tucked it into his pocket, and reached into his coat.
May you like
He pulled out the cheap pink hairbrush with the peeling butterfly sticker, holding it in his hand as the first golden rays of the new sun touched his face.
Lorenzo smiled—a real, genuine smile—and looked toward the bright, unbroken horizon.
