Chapter 7 - THE CEMETERY GATES
The storm broke over Chicago just as Dante’s heavily armored convoy rolled out of the estate gates.
Thunder rattled the windows of the lead SUV, masking the roar of the engines. Inside, the cabin was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint green glow of the tactical GPS on the dashboard.
Leah sat in the back seat, her hands clutched tightly in her lap. She had refused to stay behind. When Dante tried to order her to remain in the study, she had looked him dead in the eye and told him that if he locked her in a room, she would break a window and walk out.
Dante didn't have time to argue. He had simply handed her a heavy Kevlar vest and told her to put it on over the plum dress.
Now, she sat beside Dante, who was entirely focused on the assault rifle resting across his knees. He hadn't spoken a word since they left the house. The charming man who had waltzed with her was gone. The man sitting next to her was a soldier preparing for a slaughter.
“ETA is three minutes, Boss,” Marcus rumbled from the driver’s seat.
Dante nodded once. “Radio the trailing cars. No headlights when we breach the gates. Night vision only. We hit them hard and fast. No prisoners.”
“Understood.”
Leah swallowed hard, the reality of the violence about to unfold settling heavily in her stomach. “Dante,” she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.
He didn't look at her, but his hand covered hers, his grip tight and grounding.
“Stay in the car, Leah,” Dante ordered, his voice low and uncompromising. “The glass is bulletproof. The doors are reinforced steel. Do not open them for anyone but me or Marcus. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
The convoy turned off the main road, the tires crunching onto the gravel path leading toward St. Jude’s Cemetery. The massive wrought-iron gates loomed in the darkness, illuminated only by occasional flashes of lightning.
The gates were chained shut.
“Ram it,” Dante commanded.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He slammed his foot on the gas. The massive, armored SUV surged forward, hitting the iron gates with a deafening, metallic crash. The chains snapped like brittle twigs, the heavy gates flying open, tearing off their hinges.
The convoy poured into the cemetery, tearing across the wet grass, weaving between the towering marble mausoleums and weathered headstones.
“There,” Dante pointed through the windshield.
Near the center of the sprawling graveyard, a cluster of high-powered halogen work lights illuminated a large family plot. Three black vans were parked in a semicircle. Half a dozen men in dark raincoats were standing around a massive marble headstone, holding shovels and crowbars.
Silvio Rinaldi stood in the center, smoking a cigar under an umbrella, watching his men desecrate the grave of Maria Moretti.
“Light them up,” Dante roared.
Marcus hit a switch on the dashboard. The SUV’s blinding high beams flared to life, pinning Silvio and his men in a harsh, inescapable glare.
Before the Rinaldi thugs could even raise their weapons, Dante kicked his door open while the SUV was still rolling.
He hit the wet grass running, raising his assault rifle and firing in short, controlled bursts.
The deafening roar of automatic gunfire shattered the quiet cemetery.
Leah screamed, throwing her hands over her ears, diving to the floorboard of the SUV. The sound was terrifying, a chaotic symphony of cracking bullets, shouting men, and shattering stone.
She huddled beneath the leather seats, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for it to end.
For two agonizing minutes, the gunfire raged. Then, slowly, the shooting began to taper off, replaced by shouts of surrender and the heavy groans of wounded men.
The silence that followed was heavier than the gunfire.
Leah slowly lifted her head, peering over the edge of the window.
The Rinaldi thugs were decimated. The few who had survived were on their knees in the mud, their hands raised, surrounded by Dante’s heavily armed men.
But Silvio Rinaldi wasn't on his knees.
Silvio had taken cover behind Maria Moretti’s massive marble headstone. He was bleeding from a gunshot wound to his shoulder, breathing heavily, holding a pistol.
Dante walked slowly across the wet grass, his rifle lowered but ready. He didn't look at the dead men. He didn't look at his soldiers. He walked directly toward the headstone.
“It’s over, Silvio,” Dante’s voice echoed across the quiet cemetery, cold and absolute. “Drop the gun.”
Silvio laughed, a ragged, wet sound. He stepped out from behind the headstone, pointing his gun directly at Dante’s chest.
“I don't think so, Moretti. I drop this, you put a bullet in my head anyway.”
“You are a dead man either way,” Dante said, stepping closer, completely unfazed by the weapon aimed at him. “But if you drop it, I’ll make it quick. You pull that trigger, and I promise you, I will make it last for days.”
Silvio hesitated. The bravado faltered. He looked at Dante’s men surrounding him, then at the cold, unyielding fury in Dante’s eyes.
Silvio slowly lowered his gun, letting it drop into the mud.
He raised his hands in surrender.
Dante didn't raise his rifle. He didn't shoot.
He walked up to Silvio, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a heavy, suppressed handgun.
“You disrespected my mother,” Dante whispered, raising the pistol to Silvio’s forehead.
“Wait!” Silvio panicked, taking a step back, his eyes wide with terror. “Wait, Dante! I have information! I know who gave me the hit on your safe house! I didn't do it alone!”
Dante paused, his finger hovering over the trigger.
“Who?”
“You have a rat in your house,” Silvio spat, desperate to save his own life. “Someone on your payroll sold you out. They gave me the layout of your security, Dante. They told me you were distracted with the maid.”
Dante’s jaw clenched. “Give me a name.”
Silvio grinned, a nasty, triumphant smile.
“I don't know his real name. But he said he was an instructor. Said he worked for the old lady at the dance studio.”
The air rushed out of Leah’s lungs inside the SUV.
An instructor.
“Owen,” Leah breathed, horror washing over her.
Dante didn't need to hear another word. The realization hit him instantly. Owen hadn't just insulted Leah at the party. He had been spying on them. He had recognized Dante, realized the danger, and tried to sell them out to the highest bidder to save his own skin.
Dante lowered his gun slightly.
“You see?” Silvio laughed nervously. “We can make a deal. I gave you the rat. Now let me walk.”
“I don't make deals with men who dig up graves,” Dante said softly.
He raised the gun again.
But before Dante could pull the trigger, the roar of a massive engine tore through the cemetery gates.
A heavy, armored transport truck, entirely unmarked, smashed through the treeline, plowing directly toward Dante and Silvio.
“Boss, look out!” Marcus roared.
Dante dove out of the way, tackling Silvio to the ground as the massive truck careened through the mud, smashing through headstones, and slammed violently into the side of Dante’s SUV.
The impact was deafening.
The SUV was thrown violently onto its side, the bulletproof glass shattering inward.
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Leah screamed as the world spun, metal screeching, airbags deploying with a concussive blast.
She hit the roof of the overturned car, pain exploding in her shoulder, the darkness swallowing her whole.
