Chapter 5: The Floor is Clean
The first hitman died before his boots even touched the porch steps.
Roman fired a single, suppressed round from his rifle through the narrow slit of the living room window. The heavy 5.56 grain bullet shattered the man’s breastplate, dropping him instantly into the wet pine needles without a sound.
"Ambush!" one of them screamed, the remaining three instantly scattering into the shadows of the trees.
Automatic gunfire erupted, the high-velocity rounds slamming into the exterior stone of the house, chipping away pieces of granite but failing to penetrate the reinforced log structure. Roman moved through the dark hallways with the fluid, lethal grace of a ghost. He knew every creak in the floorboards, every shadow cast by the fireplace.
He slipped out the back door, using the mist from the lake as cover.
He came up behind the second shooter, who was reloading his weapon behind a decorative stone well. Roman didn't use his gun. He dropped his cane, stepped forward with his military knife, and drove the blade up beneath the man’s jaw into his skull. The man went limp, his weapon clattering against the stones.
Two left.
But Gianni Marcone’s men weren't amateurs. The remaining two shooters realized they were outmatched inside the property lines. They began to retreat toward the lake shore, their flashlights sweeping the path where Mara and Clara had run just twenty minutes prior.
"Hey!" one of them shouted, pointing his light at the wooden dock. "There’s a footprint here! Fresh mud!"
Roman’s blood turned to liquid fire. His paranoia vanished, replaced by an all-consuming, protective rage that made his vision turn red. He abandoned his cover, stepping out onto the open lawn, his rifle raised to his shoulder.
"Look at me, you bastards!" Roman roared across the dark grass.
The two hitmen spun around, their weapons tracking his voice. But Roman was faster. He emptied his magazine in a single, continuous burst of controlled fury. The first man was hit four times in the torso, his body thrown backward into the freezing waters of Geneva Lake with a heavy splash.
The fourth man, a massive mercenary with a scarred face, was hit in the leg. He fell to his knees, his gun dropping into the mud, his hands coming up to clutch his shattered femur.
Roman walked across the lawn slowly, retrieving his cane from the porch before stepping down to the shoreline. The rain washed the smoke from his rifle barrel as he stood over the wounded assassin.
"Who sent you?" Roman asked, his voice dead, devoid of any human emotion.
"Go to hell, DeLuca," the mercenary spat, blood pooling in his mouth. "Gianni knows everything. Your cousin Dominic sold you out. He’s the one who gave us the location of your medical thefts. He’s taking the family seat tonight in Chicago."
Roman didn't look surprised. He had suspected Dominic for months. In the mafia, treason was as common as the rain.
"Thank you for the information," Roman said smoothly.
He raised his Glock and fired a single round into the man’s forehead.
The silence returned to the lake, deeper and heavier than before. Four bodies lay scattered across the pristine grass of his sanctuary, their blood mixing with the rainwater and draining into the dark lake.
Roman stood there for five minutes, his breathing regulating, his mind clearing. He looked down at his clothes, covered in mud and carbon scoring. He looked like the monster the world believed him to be.
He walked down the wooden dock, his cane tapping rhythmically against the planks. He knelt down beside the hidden steel hatch beneath the boat slip and knocked four times.
"Mara," he called out, his voice turning instantly soft, turning into the voice of the man who had learned how to play hide-and-seek. "The floor is clean."
The steel lock turned from the inside. The hatch swung open, and Mara’s face appeared in the dim light. Her eyes were wide with a desperate, frantic terror, but when she saw Roman standing there—bleeding from a small scratch on his cheek but entirely alive—she let out a sob and lunged forward, throwing her arms around his neck.
"You're alive," she wept, her face burying into his wet shoulder. "You're alive."
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Roman wrapped his arms around her soft waist, pulling her up out of the hatch, holding her against his chest like she was the only anchor in a world that was constantly trying to tear him apart.
"I’m alive," he whispered into her damp hair. "And they will never look for her again. It's time to go back to Chicago, Mara. It's time to clean the house for good."
