Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
The sub-basement was vast, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent tubes that hummed an irritating, high-pitched note. Stacks of smuggled electronics and crates of untraceable firearms filled the corners, casting long, menacing shadows across the damp floor.
“Clear,” whispered one of our scouts, lowering his night-vision goggles as he emerged from a dark hallway. “Stairs leading up to the main floor are just ahead. Two guards posted at the landing. They're smoking, not paying attention.”
“Take them down silently,” I ordered. “No noise until we reach the central office where Colombo is holding them.”
Two quick, suppressed puffs echoed through the damp air, and the guards crumpled like discarded marionettes before their bodies even hit the concrete. We moved up the metal staircase in a tight, disciplined formation, every man hyper-focused, adrenaline pumping through our veins like liquid fire.
As we reached the main floor, the muffled sound of classical music drifted down from the upper mezzanine—ironically, a Chopin nocturne. Vincent Colombo always fancied himself an aristocrat of the underworld, a man of refined tastes hiding behind a veneer of corporate legitimacy.
I pushed past a pair of heavy mahogany double doors leading into the executive office overlooking the main shipping floor.
There he sat.
Vincent Colombo was a heavy-set man with slicked-back gray hair, an expensive tailored suit, and a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He turned around in his executive leather chair as the doors creaked open, expecting his lieutenants. Instead, he found the barrel of my SIG Sauer pointing squarely between his eyes.
He didn't flinch. In fact, a slow, arrogant smile spread across his fleshy face.
“Moretti,” Colombo chuckled, setting his glass down with a sharp clink. “I must admit, I knew you were reckless, but walking into my primary stronghold alone—well, with a few stray dogs—takes a special kind of stupidity. Where are Elena and the brat? Did you leave them behind to cry?”
I walked slowly across the Persian rug, the barrel of my gun never wavering by a millimeter. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Where are they, Vincent?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.
“Now, now, Dominic. Let’s negotiate like civilized men,” Colombo said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “You want your maid and her annoying little nuisance back? Simple. Sign over the port authority contracts, transfer fifty million to my offshore accounts, and crawl out of New York for the next decade. Then—and only then—might I consider returning them to you in one piece.”
I didn't answer immediately. I walked up to his mahogany desk, reached out, and picked up his crystal whiskey glass. I sniffed it, swirling the aged liquid, before casually pouring the entire contents over his expensive silk tie.
Colombo’s smile vanished instantly, replaced by a flush of furious indignation. “You insane bastard! Do you know who I am? My men have the entire perimeter locked down! At a single word from me, my guards will turn your little rescue party into minced meat!”
“Your men?” I asked softly, leaning over the desk until my face was inches from his. “You mean the guards stationed outside this office? The ones who were supposed to protect you?”
I tapped my earpiece twice.
From the hallway came a sharp, collective sound of heavy bodies hitting the floor, followed by Marco’s voice cutting through the comms. “Perimeter secured, Boss. All Colombo loyalists have been neutralized. The building is ours.”
Colombo’s face went completely pale. The arrogant veneer shattered in a fraction of a second, leaving behind a pathetic, cornered coward.
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“No... no, that's impossible,” he stammered, gripping the edges of his desk. “You couldn't have breached the yard this fast...”
“You talk too much, Vincent,” I said, pressing the cold steel of my pistol directly against the center of his forehead. “Now, I'm going to ask you one last time. Where are Elena and Lily?”
