Chapter 8 - THE VELVET LOUNGE
The silence in the empty bedroom was deafening.
I stared at the cheap silver ring on the blood-stained carpet.
Victor Falcone hadn't sent his men to fight a war in the snow. He had sent a tactical extraction team to bypass my guards in the dark, grab Lily and Clara, and vanish before my men could even engage.
Dante ran into the room, his assault rifle raised, breathing heavily.
“They’re gone, Boss,” Dante reported, looking at the broken window in despair. “The Blackhawks dusted off before we could get a visual. They took the girl and the therapist.”
I picked up Clara’s ring. I squeezed it in my fist so tightly the cheap metal dug into my palm.
“They took them back to the city,” I said, my voice completely stripped of panic. This was no longer a rescue mission. This was an execution. “Victor knows I have the ledger. He took them as hostages to force a trade.”
“Where would he take them?”
I looked out the shattered window toward the dark horizon of New York.
“The Velvet Lounge.”
It was Victor’s private fortress in Brooklyn. The same club where Clara used to work. The same club where Julian first met Elena. Victor was arrogant; he always brought his victims back to the scene of his triumphs.
“Call the men,” I ordered Dante, walking past him. “Every loyal gun we have left. We’re going to Brooklyn.”
“Boss, the Velvet Lounge is heavily fortified,” Dante warned, following me down the hall. “It’s a suicide mission. If we attack the front doors, Victor will kill the hostages before we even breach the lobby.”
“We’re not attacking the front doors,” I said.
Two hours later, it was 3:00 AM. A freezing rain was falling over Brooklyn, turning the neon lights of the Velvet Lounge into a blurred, bloody smear against the wet asphalt.
The club looked quiet from the outside. Two massive bouncers stood by the velvet ropes.
But I knew the building. My father had helped build it thirty years ago.
I stood in the dark, rain-soaked alleyway behind the club with Dante and ten of my best enforcers. We were dressed in black tactical gear, carrying suppressed MP5 submachine guns.
I held up a blueprint on a waterproof tablet.
“The main club is on the ground floor,” I whispered to my men. “But Victor’s private office is in the basement, accessible only by a reinforced steel elevator. That’s where he’s holding them.”
“How do we get down there?” Dante asked.
“The old prohibition tunnels,” I pointed to a storm drain grate at our feet. “They connect to the club’s wine cellar. My father bricked them up twenty years ago, but the structure is weak.”
We pried the heavy iron grate open and dropped into the dark, damp tunnels beneath Brooklyn. The smell of raw sewage and stagnant water filled the air.
We moved silently in single file, our tactical flashlights cutting through the gloom.
After twenty minutes of navigating the maze, we reached a solid brick wall.
Dante stepped forward and planted a silent, localized breaching charge against the mortar.
“Stand back,” he whispered.
A muffled thump echoed in the tunnel, and the brick wall crumbled inward in a cloud of dust.
We stepped through the breach into a massive, climate-controlled wine cellar.
We were in.
I signaled for the men to fan out. We moved up the narrow staircase toward the basement office corridor.
Two Falcone guards were standing by the heavy steel door of Victor’s office, smoking cigarettes and laughing.
Dante and I didn't hesitate. Two suppressed shots pfft-pfft. Both guards dropped to the floor without making a sound.
I stepped over their bodies and placed my hand on the handle of the steel door.
I could hear voices inside.
“You’re going to give me the decryption key, you stupid girl,” Victor Falcone’s voice sneered through the metal. “Or I’m going to throw this little brat in the river, just like I did to her mother.”
My blood boiled.
I kicked the steel door with devastating force. It flew open, slamming against the interior wall.
The office was massive, decorated in gaudy red velvet and gold.
Clara was tied to a chair in the center of the room, her face bruised, her lip bleeding.
Lily was crying silently in the corner, clutching her purple backpack.
And standing over Clara, holding a silver revolver, was Victor Falcone. He was a wealthy, manicured man in his sixties, his face twisted in shock as I burst into his sanctuary.
Standing behind the desk was Silvio, gripping his silver cane.
“Nobody move!” I roared, aiming my MP5 directly at Victor’s chest.
My men flooded the room, securing the perimeter instantly.
Victor froze, his revolver still aimed at Clara.
“Dominic,” Victor sneered, recovering his composure quickly. “You’re trespassing. You broke the truce.”
“The truce was built on my brother’s blood,” I spat, stepping further into the room. “It died tonight.”
Silvio laughed dryly from behind the desk. “You’re too late, nephew. I already transferred the offshore funds. The ledger is useless to you now.”
“I don't care about the money,” I said, staring dead into Victor’s eyes. “I care about the little girl in the corner.”
Victor tightened his grip on his gun. “If you shoot me, I shoot the physical therapist. It’s a Mexican standoff, Dominic.”
“It’s not a standoff,” a new voice said.
Everyone froze.
From the shadows of the open doorway behind me stepped a man wearing an old, faded brown trench coat.
It was Marco.
He was bleeding heavily from his shoulder where I had shot him, his face pale and sweating.
But he was holding a dead-man's switch in his hand. Wires ran from his fist into a heavy vest strapped under his coat.
“Marco?” Silvio frowned, looking confused. “What are you doing here?”
“Balancing the scales,” Marco wheezed, glaring at Silvio and Victor with pure, unadulterated hatred.
Marco looked at me.
“You didn't kill my brother, Boss,” Marco said softly. “They did. And I’m not letting them walk away with it.”
May you like
Marco raised his thumb over the detonator button.
“Get the girl and the woman, Dominic,” Marco smiled grimly. “I’ve got the room.”
