Chapter 2 - THE WOLVES AT THE DOOR
The heavy thud of tactical boots against the marble staircase reverberated through the penthouse like a death knell. Vincent’s hand closed around the textured grip of his custom 1911 pistol, sliding it smoothly from its leather holster. He didn't waste time on shock or denial; a man didn't survive forty years in the syndicate by hesitating. He stepped in front of Elena, his broad shoulders forming an impenetrable wall between his trembling daughter and the shattered living room.
Marcus let out a wet, gurgling laugh from the ruined remains of the coffee table. "You're a relic, Vincent," he sneered, wiping a smear of blood from his chin. "You thought loyalty was absolute. But loyalty is just a commodity. It goes to the highest bidder. And your top lieutenants? They really appreciate the offshore accounts I set up for them."
"Quiet," Vincent snapped, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. He raised the pistol and fired a single, suppressed round into the floor, mere inches from Marcus’s face. The younger man flinched violently, his manic laughter dying in his throat as shards of marble sprayed his cheek. "Elena, the clock. Get the camera."
Elena scrambled across the floor, her bare knees biting into the glass. Her hands were shaking violently, but the sheer, glacial calm radiating from her father anchored her. She reached the mantelpiece, her fingers prying open the back of the small decorative clock. A tiny micro-SD card dropped into her palm. She clenched it tightly in her fist—it was the only proof of the hell she had endured.
"I have it," she whispered, her voice cracking.
"Good. Now move to the kitchen. Keep low," Vincent ordered, his eyes never leaving the entrance. The mahogany double doors he had kicked in moments earlier now framed a fatal funnel.
The first two men breached the doorway. They wore black tactical gear, submachine guns raised, their faces concealed behind balaclavas. These were the ‘cleaners’—the elite hit squad Vincent himself had trained.
Vincent didn't hesitate. He leveled his 1911 and fired twice. Crack. Crack. The heavy .45 caliber rounds took the point man in the center of his Kevlar vest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him staggering backward into his partner. Before they could recover, Vincent pivoted, grabbed a heavy bronze sculpture from a side table, and hurled it through the massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city skyline.
The glass shattered outward with a deafening roar, the howling night wind instantly violently rushing into the penthouse. Papers whipped into a frenzy, and the sudden drop in pressure threw the assaulters off balance.
"The freight elevator!" Vincent shouted over the roar of the wind. He grabbed Elena by the arm, dragging her behind the massive marble kitchen island just as a hail of automatic gunfire tore through the space where they had been standing milliseconds before. The expensive espresso machine exploded in a shower of boiling water and shrapnel.
"Dad, they're everywhere!" Elena cried, covering her ears as bullets chewed the cabinetry to splinters.
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"They're sloppy," Vincent replied coldly. He dropped his empty magazine, the metal clinking against the tile, and smoothly slammed a fresh one home. "They rely on numbers. We rely on discipline. Stay behind me."
He popped out from the side of the island, catching a third cleaner attempting to flank them. A single shot dropped the man instantly. Vincent grabbed Elena’s hand and lunged toward the service corridor. As they slammed the reinforced steel door of the pantry shut behind them, Vincent keyed a heavy deadbolt, buying them exactly thirty seconds before the breaching charges would go off. They were heading into the dark belly of the building, and the night had only just begun.
