Chapter 5 - Poison in the House of Romano
At 11:15 PM, the winter wind howling off Lake Michigan dragged heavy black clouds over the Greystone estate.
Outside the rear gate, Officer Marcus stood inside his small wooden guard shack, stamping his boots against the bitter cold. His hands were deep in his heavy coat pockets, his thumb nervously rubbing the smooth metal of a remote detonator switch given to him by Dominic Rossi’s lieutenant.
Marcus checked his watch. 11:18 PM.
He stepped out of the shack, cast a quick glance up at the dark security cameras—which he had silently looped fifteen minutes prior—and walked over to the iron gate housing. Kneeling down, he verified the small black box tucked beneath the electronic lock. It pulsed with a faint green light.
Five million dollars, Marcus thought to himself, his heart hammering against his ribs. Five million dollars in a Cayman account the moment Adrien Romano’s body hits the floor.
He pulled out his phone and sent a single text: THE DOOR IS UNLOCKED.
Three hundred yards away, sitting in the darkness of the tree-lined perimeter, Adrien Romano watched through a pair of night-vision binoculars from the second-floor balcony of the carriage house. Beside him, Marco held a tactical radio, his face illuminated only by the faint green glow of his scope.
"He sent the signal," Marco whispered. "Three vehicles approaching the outer lane. No headlights."
"Let them enter," Adrien commanded smoothly. "Wait until the third vehicle passes the threshold, then cut the power to the gate bypass and seal the iron doors."
Down on the drive, three black SUVs glided through the opening gate like vultures sliding into a graveyard. The lead vehicle—the matte-black Range Rover with the dented rear fender—pulled to a stop ten yards inside the estate.
The doors clicked open. Eighteen heavily armed men in dark tactical gear stepped out onto the wet asphalt, silenced submachine guns raised. Among them stepped Dominic Rossi—a sharp-featured man in a fur-collared coat, grinning like a hyena entering an empty lion's den.
Rossi walked over to Marcus, who was standing nervously by the guard shack.
"Is the house clear?" Rossi asked, his voice dripping with triumphant venom. "The great Adrien Romano is still sipping champagne in Manhattan?"
"Yes," Marcus lied nervously, holding his hand out. "The cameras are looped. The main security squad is asleep in the east barracks. Where's my payment code?"
Rossi smiled, a cold, empty expression. He reached into his coat as if pulling out a piece of paper, but instead brought up a silenced pistol equipped with a heavy suppressor.
"Here's your payment, traitor," Rossi sneered.
CLACK.
A heavy gunshot shattered the silence of the driveway—but it didn't come from Rossi’s gun.
Rossi’s right hand exploded in a shower of red as a high-caliber sniper round from the carriage house balcony tore through his wrist, knocking his gun into the slush. Rossi screamed, staggering back, clutching his shattered hand.
Before his men could react, bright halogen floodlights burst to life from every corner of the estate, blinding the invading mercenaries in a wall of agonizing white light.
The heavy iron rear gates slammed shut behind them with a deafening metallic CLANG, the automatic locking bolts driving deep into the stone pillars.
"DOWN ON THE GROUND! DROPPING WEAPONS NOW!" Marco’s voice boomed over the estate’s PA system, accompanied by the cold, terrifying sound of twenty laser sights dotting the chests of Rossi’s men.
From the shadows surrounding the drive, Adrien’s elite guards stepped forward, heavily armored and completely surrounding the trapped convoy.
From the top of the stone steps leading down from the main house, Adrien Romano walked down slowly, unhurriedly, holding his weapon at his side. He didn't look angry; he looked like a god walking through a minor annoyance.
Dominic Rossi was on his knees in the snow, weeping and cursing, holding his mangled hand. He looked up through the blinding floodlights, his face twisting in absolute horror as he recognized the shadow walking toward him.
"You..." Rossi gasped, his voice cracking with terror. "You're in New York... You're supposed to be in Manhattan!"
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Adrien stopped two feet from the groveling rival boss. He looked down at him with dark, pitiless eyes.
"I came home early, Dominic," Adrien said, his voice quiet, almost conversational over the howling wind. "I wanted to check on my shoes."
