Chapter 5 - The Siege of the Hudson EstateThe Hudson Valley estate was a fortress carved directly into the rocky cliffs overlooking the icy river below. Surrounded by ancient pine forests and sheer stone walls, the sprawling stone manor looked like something out of a medieval legend—dark, imposing, and impregnable.
By the time our helicopter touched down on the reinforced stone helipad, a convoy of four armored SUVs was already idling in the courtyard, their engines rumbling deep and low in the freezing mountain air.
Thirty armed enforcers stood at attention in the rain, their faces shadowed by tactical helmets.
When Marcus stepped out of the aircraft, the entire yard snapped into rigid silence. He didn't look like the man who had knelt on a penthouse floor cleaning blood from my foot an hour ago. He was the Supreme Commander of the Valentino syndicate—cold, absolute, and utterly lethal.
He helped me down from the helicopter, handing me over to a trusted female medic who quickly fitted me with a pair of heavy tactical boots and handed me a fresh, clean ammunition vest.
"Stay in the underground command center," Marcus told me, his hands resting on my shoulders, his thumb brushing my cheek.
"No," I said, my voice leaving no room for negotiation. "I’m not hiding in a bunker while you fight my war, Marcus. I pulled a trigger tonight. I'm part of this now."
Marcus stared at me for a long, hard moment, searching my face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, a dark, fierce pride flashed in his gray eyes.
"Fine," he muttered, grabbing an assault rifle from the nearest rack and handing it to me. "Stay on my six. If anyone gets past my line, you put them down."
Ten minutes later, the assault began.
The Moretti syndicate didn't send warning shots. Two armored trucks smashed through the front iron gates of the estate, their headlights cutting blinding swaths through the rain and pine trees, disgorging dozens of armed mercenaries into the courtyard.
They thought they were attacking an isolated safehouse.
They didn't know they were walking into a meat grinder.
From the stone battlements and second-story windows, Marcus’s enforcers opened fire with devastating, synchronized precision. Muzzle flashes lit up the courtyard like a thunderstorm, the deafening roar of automatic gunfire echoing off the canyon walls.
Marcus moved through the front doors of the manor like a ghost, leading his strike team straight into the courtyard chaos. I stayed right on his shoulder, firing methodically whenever a target broke through the crossfire, my hands steady, my mind cold and clear.
The battle was brutal, fast, and merciless.
Within twenty minutes, the courtyard was littered with abandoned weapons and surrendering mercenaries.
And then, stepping out of the leading armored truck with a smoking shotgun in his hand, came Don Salvatore Moretti himself—an old, silver-haired wolf of a man whose face twisted in fury as he saw his strike team decimated.
"Valentino!" Moretti roared over the din of the rain, leveling his shotgun toward Marcus. "You think you can—"
Before Moretti could finish the sentence, a single, sharp crack echoed from the second-story balcony above.
A bullet struck Moretti’s shotgun barrel, shattering the steel and tearing the weapon from his hands with a violent snap.
Moretti screamed, clutching his bleeding hand.
He looked up toward the balcony.
I stood there, smoke curling lazily from the barrel of my rifle, my eyes locked on him with cold, absolute authority.
Marcus didn't even bother to raise his gun. He walked slowly toward the aging don, his boots crunching on the wet gravel, his face carved from ice. He grabbed Moretti by the collar, hauled him up to his feet, and whispered something so low the wind carried it away.
Moretti went completely pale, his knees buckling beneath him.
May you like
Marcus motioned to Alessandro, who stepped forward with two enforcers and dragged Moretti away toward the lower holding cells.
The war was over before the sun had even begun to peek over the eastern mountains.
