Chapter 7 - The Night of the Wolf
The storm hit New Orleans at midnight, the heavy rain turning the gravel drive of the estate into a muddy torrent.
At 2:14 a.m., the first security camera on the south gate went black.
Alessandro sat in his study, a glass of bourbon resting untouched on his desk. He wore no jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his heavy black pistol resting beside his hand.
"They're through the gate," Reed’s voice crackled over the radio. "Dom is leading the front wave. Victor Falcone is with him. They have fifty men, Alessandro. They’re breaching the kitchen doors."
"Let them in," Alessandro said.
He picked up his weapon, checked the chamber with a practiced, mechanical movement, and stood up.
The lights in the mansion went out, plunging the massive house into pitch-black darkness.
In the kitchen, the heavy oak doors splintered under the impact of a battering ram. Dom Vitucci stepped through the dust and rain, a submachine gun cradled in his arms.
"Alessandro!" Dom shouted into the dark hallway. "It’s over, brother! Come out and make it easy! We don't have to hurt the girl!"
"You already hurt her, Dom," a voice echoed from the darkness of the grand staircase.
A single spotlight clicked on, illuminating Alessandro standing on the landing. He looked calm, almost bored, his pistol hanging loosely at his side.
"You let her starve in that cottage while you were planning your little coup," Alessandro said, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of the rain. "You forgot that the people who work for me are my family. You thought only the men with guns mattered."
"They do matter!" Dom screamed, raising his weapon.
Before he could pull the trigger, the glass skylight above the foyer shattered.
Four of Alessandro’s top marksmen, who had been suspended from the rafters, opened fire. The darkness erupted into a chaotic symphony of muzzle flashes and deafening gunfire. Dom’s men fell where they stood, their blood mixing with the rainwater pooling on the marble floor.
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Alessandro moved with lethal, terrifying speed. He descended the stairs, his pistol barking in his hand, each shot finding its mark with surgical precision.
He was not running. He was hunting.
