Chapter 5 - The Flame and the FloodThe rain outside the grand iron gates of the Duca estate was blinding, whipped into a hurricane-force frenzy by the howling winds off the Long Island Sound.
Three heavy fuel trucks were parked in a semi-circle outside the perimeter wall, their thick rubber hoses pouring thousands of gallons of dark, reeking diesel onto the stone entry columns and surrounding dry brush.
Bianca Moretti stood under a massive black umbrella, holding a bright red emergency flare in her gloved hand. She was still wearing her stained ivory wedding dress, the lace hem soaked in mud, her hair wild and disheveled, her eyes burning with a lunatic fury. Beside her stood Don Victor Moretti, surrounded by twelve heavily armed mercenaries carrying automatic shotguns.
"Light it, Bianca," Victor growled, checking his gold watch. "Dante’s security force in Brooklyn is mobilizing. We have ten minutes before his capos arrive to reinforce him."
"I want him to watch it burn first," Bianca spat, her fingers tightening around the flare's ignition cap. "I want him to see his legacy go up in flames."
Suddenly, the heavy iron gates of the estate slowly began to swing open.
Through the thick curtain of rain and diesel fumes, a single figure emerged from the shadows of the long driveway.
Dante Duca walked out into the storm alone.
He wore no heavy tactical vest, no helmet, no shield. He walked with long, deliberate strides, holding his suppressed submachine gun loosely in his right hand, his dark coat billowing behind him in the gale-force wind.
The twelve mercenaries instantly raised their weapons, red laser sights painting Dante’s chest and forehead with a dozen crimson dots.
Dante didn't slow down. He stopped ten feet from the iron gates, looking at Victor and Bianca with a cold, terrifying serenity that made the hardened mercenaries shift uncomfortably on their feet.
"Victor," Dante said, his voice easily carrying over the roar of the wind and rain. "Bianca. You came to my house."
"You ruined my life, Dante!" Bianca screamed, taking a step forward, raising the red flare in her hand. "You humiliated me in front of every family in New York! You chose a dead traitor over me!"
"She wasn't a traitor," Dante replied smoothly. "And she certainly isn't dead."
Victor stepped forward, his heavy cane tapping against the wet pavement. "It doesn't matter who she was, Dante. You broke the contract between our families. The Moretti syndicate owns your shipping routes now. Drop your weapon, kneel in the mud, and perhaps I will let your children live out their lives in an orphanage."
Dante let out a low, dark laugh—a sound so full of lethal amusement that Victor’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion.
"You always were bad at logistics, Victor," Dante said softly. He raised his left hand, pointing his thumb toward the dark waters of the Long Island Sound behind the estate. "You put all your men at my front gate to burn my house down. You didn't leave a single guard at the eastern docks."
Victor’s face drained of color. "What?"
A loud, piercing horn echoed across the water from the darkness of the bay.
Suddenly, twin searchlights from a massive forty-foot Coast Guard cutter cut through the storm haze, illuminating the treeline behind the Moretti convoy. Beside the Coast Guard vessel were three heavy black speedboats bearing the crest of the Duca enterprise, manned by twenty heavily armed Duca loyalists led by Dante’s top capo, Marco.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!" a booming loudspeaker echoed from the Coast Guard cutter.
"You called the Feds?!" Bianca shrieked in absolute disbelief. "A mafia Don called the law?!"
"I didn't call the law for me, Bianca," Dante said, a cold, wicked smile breaking across his scarred face. "Amara handed the state prosecutor the encrypted files from your Zurich accounts an hour ago. The Feds aren't here for my family. They're here to seize every asset the Moretti syndicate owns."
"Shoot him!" Victor screamed, panicking as he backed toward his limousine. "Shoot him now!"
The mercenaries raised their rifles, but before a single trigger could be pulled, Dante dove to the side into the ditch beside the gatehouse, firing his submachine gun in a sweeping arc.
Pfft-pfft-pfft-pfft!
Simultaneously, Dante’s loyalists opened fire from the treeline, while Coast Guard tactical officers swarmed the road, deploying flashbang grenades that detonated with blinding white flashes and deafening cracks.
BANG! BANG! FLASH!
Chaos erupted outside the gates. Mercenaries dropped their weapons, scrambling into the woods as automatic gunfire crisscrossed the dark road.
Bianca, hysterical with rage, pulled the ignition cap on the red flare, sparks showering over her hands, and threw it toward the stream of diesel running along the driveway.
"NO!" Dante roared, scrambling out of the ditch.
He leaped through the air like a striking panther, grabbing Bianca around her waist mid-flight, wrestling her away from the fuel line just as the flare struck the wet grass—missing the diesel pool by three mere inches.
They hit the muddy embankment hard. Bianca fought like a wild animal, screaming and scratching at his face, but Dante pinned her wrists to the earth, his heavy weight immobilizing her completely.
Victor Moretti tried to reach his limousine, but Marco stepped out of the shadows, slamming the butt of his shotgun into the old Don’s chest, dropping him face-first into the muddy road.
The battle of St. Augustine’s legacy was over in less than four minutes.
Dante stood up from the mud, dragging Bianca to her feet, handing her over to two federal agents who slammed her against the hood of a patrol car, snapping heavy steel handcuffs over her wrists.
Bianca glared at Dante, her eyes filled with bitter, defeated tears. "You think you won, Dante? You think she'll ever forgive you for what you did five years ago?"
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Dante wiped the mud and rain from his eyes, looking back toward his estate where the warm lights were slowly turning back on, illuminating the path home.
"She doesn't have to forgive me today, Bianca," Dante said softly, his voice full of an absolute, unwavering certainty. "I have the rest of my life to earn it."
