Chapter 7 - The Siege of Duca Estate
The silence in the courtyard snapped like a dry twig.
Before Bianchi’s hand could fall to signal his men, Marco didn't aim at Bianchi—he whipped his Beretta around and fired two precise shots into the tires of Bianchi’s lead SUV, dropping the vehicle onto its rims and trapping their escape route.
“Traitor!” Bianchi screamed, diving behind the hood of the remaining vehicle as automatic gunfire erupted across the Duca estate.
Chaos swallowed the courtyard. Bullets chipped the ancient marble pillars, sending white dust flying into the autumn air. Lorenzo moved with terrifying, practiced speed, drawing his own weapon and sliding behind the reinforced stone balustrade of the staircase, pulling the briefcase toward him.
From the second-floor gallery, Clara flung open the window, providing covering fire with a hunting rifle she had pulled from the estate’s armory, her shots forcing Bianchi’s snipers to duck behind their doors.
“Marco!” Lorenzo shouted over the roar of gunfire. “Get the girl out of the Maybach!”
Marco sprinted across the open gravel, bullets kicking up dirt around his boots. He wrenched open the rear door of the limousine. Inside, Emma was crying softly, her hands clamped over her ears, curled into a ball on the seat.
“I got you, sweetheart,” Marco muttered, his tough exterior cracking as he scooped the six-year-old into his arms, shielding her small body with his broad shoulders as a hail of lead peppered the car roof.
He carried her toward the heavy oak doors, where Clara was waiting, her arms outstretched to pull her daughter into the safety of the mansion.
Outside, the battle was short, brutal, and entirely one-sided. The Duca estate’s hidden perimeter defenses—automated security shutters and armed response teams stationed in the west wing—activated simultaneously. Within three minutes, Bianchi’s enforcers were disarmed, pinned against the stone walls, or lying on the blood-stained gravel.
Don Vittorio Bianchi tried to scramble toward a rolling vehicle, but a heavy boot slammed down onto his hand, pinning him to the earth.
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Lorenzo stood over him, his suit jacket torn at the shoulder, smoke curling from the barrel of his pistol. His face was a mask of cold, unyielding fury.
“You brought a ledger to my house, Vittorio,” Lorenzo whispered, pressing the barrel of his gun against Bianchi’s forehead. “You should have left it in the dirt.”
