Chapter 5 - Blood on the MarbleThe double doors of the grand foyer blasted open with a deafening crash as Eddie Russo kicked them off their hinges.
"Declan!" Russo’s raspy voice echoed through the marble-columned hall, dripping with false camaraderie and thinly veiled menace. "We saw smoke from the canyon road! Thought we’d come check on you and the little lady!"
Frank Sullivan flanked him, resting his hand casually near the holster of his coat, while six enforcers fanned out behind them, blocking every exit.
Silence answered them.
The foyer was dark, lit only by the flickering emergency lights and the smell of residual smoke drifting down from the second-floor landing.
"Guess he's not home," Sullivan sneered, pulling a cigar from his pocket. "Or maybe the fire got him."
"Not quite, Frank,"
A cold, smooth voice cut down from the grand staircase.
Russo and Sullivan snapped their heads upward.
Standing on the landing, bathed in the pale light of the chandelier, was Declan Gomez. His charcoal suit was immaculate, his face carved from granite, and his Sig Sauer held pointed directly at Russo’s chest.
Beside him stood Camila. She had changed into a dark, tailored pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a sleek, severe knot. She wasn't holding a gun, but the heavy silver flash drive gleamed in her right hand like a badge of office.
Russo forced a greasy laugh. "Well, look at the boss. Glad you made it out of the fire, Declan. Shame about the study. Heard you lost a lot of Elena’s old papers up there."
"You knew what was in that study, Eddie," Declan said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a lethal, terrifying weight that made several of the enforcers step back. "You and Frank both. You were Elena’s primary distribution partners in the port sector."
Sullivan’s hand twitched toward his gun. "You're losing your mind, Declan. The smoke got to you."
"The smoke cleared my vision," Declan replied coldly.
He didn't fire. He didn't have to.
From the shadows behind Russo and Sullivan, the side doors of the ballroom swung open with a soft click. Agnes stood there, flanked by twelve of Declan’s most loyal, heavily armed enforcers, their rifles leveled straight at the backs of Russo’s men.
"Drop your weapons," Agnes commanded, her voice as steady as a judge's gavel.
Russo cursed, realizing too late that they had walked straight into a slaughterhouse. He reached for his pistol, but before his fingers could wrap around the grip, a gunshot cracked through the foyer.
Russo screamed, dropping to his knees as a bullet shattered his right kneecap.
He didn't look at Declan. He looked up at the stairs.
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Camila lowered her smoking, pearl-handled revolver—a weapon she had pulled seamlessly from the holster at her waist—her expression completely devoid of mercy.
"Next one goes through your skull, Eddie," Camila said smoothly. "And trust me, I'm a much better shot than my husband thinks."
