Chapter 7 - Blood and Silk
"Predictable, Roman," Julian said, his voice echoing smoothly down the concrete tunnel. "You always retreat to the basement when the roof is on fire. A classic siege mentality."
Julian was splattered with mud, his tuxedo shredded along the ribs, but his stance was steady. Flanking him were three men dressed in unmarked tactical gear, night-vision goggles pushed up on their helmets, submachine guns leveled directly at us.
"You should have taken the money and run, Julian," Roman said, stepping forward, his broad frame shielding me as much as the narrow hallway allowed.
"Fifty million is good," Julian mused, his cold eyes flicking to me. "But taking your empire? Taking Chicago? That’s generational wealth, Moretti. The Casiraghis offered me a seat at the high table for your head—and your wife’s corpse as proof that the Petrov-Moretti alliance is broken."
"You talk too much," Roman said.
In a fraction of a second, hell broke loose.
Roman dropped to one knee, firing three rapid shots through the chest of the operative on the right. At the same moment, the tunnel erupted into a deafening storm of muzzle flashes and ricocheting brass.
The concrete walls exploded into chalky dust. I dove behind a steel pillar, raising the Glock with both hands, my father's training taking over before terror could freeze my nerves. An operative rounded the corner, his weapon tracking toward Roman’s exposed flank.
I didn't think. I squeezed the trigger twice.
The bullets struck the man's throat and jaw. He collapsed like a sack of stones, his blood spraying across the gray floor.
"Serena, move!" Roman bellowed.
He was already on his feet, charging forward with the ferocity of a wounded lion. He slammed into the second tactical soldier, driving his combat knife upward beneath the man's ballistic vest. The soldier gasped, eyes widening, and went limp.
Julian, however, didn't panic.
He waited for the split second Roman’s momentum carried him forward. Julian stepped out from behind the server rack, raising his weapon point-blank at Roman’s head.
"Goodbye, Roman."
"No!" I screamed.
I lunged from behind the pillar, firing the remaining rounds in my magazine. The bullets didn't hit Julian’s vitals—he twisted away with supernatural speed—but two rounds tore through his right forearm and shoulder. His shot went wild, sparking against the steel rafters above Roman’s head.
Julian snarled in pain, dropping his gun.
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Roman didn't waste the opening. With a roar of pure, unadulterated rage, he closed the distance, tackling Julian into the massive glass partition of the server room. The reinforced pane shattered into a million sparkling diamonds.
The two men crashed into the server racks, trading brutal, bone-shattering blows in the dark.
