“Mama Fainted!” the Little Girl Cried—And the Mafia Boss Moved Without Hesitating

The lobby of the clinic was quiet, the afternoon light pouring through the glass doors, painting the marble floor in shades of white and gold. The receptionist had already been moved to the basement security room under Marco’s instructions.

The glass front doors shattered inward with a deafening roar.

Three men in heavy leather jackets stepped through the frame, their weapons drawn—short, black submachine guns meant for close-quarters execution. Leading them was Sal Vance, a man with a scarred face and eyes filled with the manic, erratic energy of a long-term cocaine addiction.

"Pierce!" Sal screamed, his voice echoing off the marble walls as he fired a short burst into the ceiling, sending plaster raining down like snow. "I know you're here, you arrogant piece of trash! Bring my brother out, or I’m going to turn this whole building into a slaughterhouse!"

"Your brother is currently at the bottom of the Delaware River, Sal," Elliot's voice echoed from the top of the grand marble staircase.

Sal snapped his head up, his weapon tracking toward the sound.

Elliot stood on the landing, completely exposed, his hands resting casually on the brass railing. He wasn't wearing his jacket; his black sweater made him look like a shadow silhouetted against the white walls.

"You killed him?" Sal hissed, his jaw twitching with rage. "You killed a captain's brother over a stupid waitress and a kid?"

"I killed a dog who made the mistake of biting in my neighborhood," Elliot corrected him, his storm-gray eyes locking onto Sal's with an intensity that made the other two gunmen hesitate. "And now you've made the mistake of coming into my clinic. That means you’re about to join him."

"Kill him!" Sal roared.

Before the gunmen could pull their triggers, the shadows beneath the staircase erupted with gunfire.

Marco and Tommy stepped out from the side corridors, their weapons firing with military precision. The two gunmen beside Sal dropped instantly, their bodies collapsing onto the shattered glass of the lobby floor before they could even level their sights.

Sal shrieked in panic, firing blindly toward the staircase as he scrambled backward toward the shattered doorway. A bullet tore through the sleeve of Elliot's sweater, grazing the skin of his forearm, but Elliot didn't even flinch.

He raised his silver revolver, took a single, deliberate breath, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet struck Sal directly in the right shoulder, the force of the high-caliber round spinning him around and slamming him against the concrete pillar outside. His weapon clattered out of his hand, sliding across the wet pavement.

Elliot walked down the marble stairs, his boots crunching softly on the broken glass. He stepped through the shattered doorway into the cool afternoon air, standing over Sal Vance, who was currently clutching his bleeding shoulder, weeping in the dirt.

"Don Moretti didn't give you permission for this, did he, Sal?" Elliot asked, leaning down and pressing the cold barrel of his revolver against Sal's forehead.

"No... no," Sal gasped, his eyes rolling back with fear. "Please, Elliot... it was my choice... my mistake. Don't kill me. Moretti will settle this. We’ll give you the west shipping docks. Anything you want."