Chapter 5 - The War for Lena
The next twenty-four hours transformed the quiet sanctuary of the Moretti estate into a fortified military command center. Black SUVs rolled up the gravel driveway by the dozen, disgorging heavily armed men in tactical gear. Sniper rifles were positioned on the roof. The air was thick with tension, cigarette smoke, and the smell of gun oil.
I was confined to the panic room in the sub-basement—a luxurious but impenetrable steel vault—guarded by Dante and three other elite enforcers. Vincent refused to let me anywhere near the main floors.
But I couldn't just sit there. I wasn't the weak, broken girl on the bathroom floor anymore. Vincent's belief in me had sparked something dormant inside my soul.
"Dante," I said, walking over to the heavy steel table where he was loading magazines into a rifle.
He looked up, respectful but dismissive. "Sit down, Miss Lena. The Boss wants you safe."
"I know Mark," I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "I lived with him for five years. I know how he thinks. If the Falcones are using him, they aren't keeping him at their main compound. Mark is a coward. He’s claustrophobic and he hates the cold. He would never agree to hide in their basement bunkers. If Alberto Falcone is keeping him comfortable to extract information, he has him at the penthouse casino in Atlantic City. Mark has a gambling addiction. It’s the only place he’d feel safe."
Dante stopped loading the magazine. He stared at me for a long moment, evaluating the intelligence. He pulled a radio from his belt.
"Boss," Dante said into the mic. "You're going to want to hear this. The lady just gave us the golden ticket."
Ten minutes later, Vincent was standing in front of me, fully strapped in a tactical vest, an assault rifle slung across his back. He looked like the god of war himself.
"Are you sure about this, Lena?" he asked, his eyes locked onto mine. "If we hit the casino and they aren't there, we leave the southern flank exposed."
"I'm sure," I said, reaching out with my uninjured right hand to touch his chest, feeling the heavy Kevlar plates. "He's there. End this, Vincent. Come back to me."
Vincent grabbed my hand, kissed my knuckles, and smiled—a dark, terrifying smile that sent shivers down my spine. "Lock the door behind me. I'll bring you his head."
The assault on the Falcone casino was not a battle; it was an execution.
I sat in the panic room, listening to the crackle of Dante’s radio. The Moretti family didn't sneak in. They drove two armored trucks straight through the front glass doors of the casino floor. It was a blitzkrieg of overwhelming force. I listened, my heart in my throat, as gunfire echoed through the radio feed, followed by the panicked screams of Falcone enforcers realizing they were hopelessly outmatched.
"Main floor secure," a voice crackled on the radio. "Moving to the penthouse."
Then came the silence. The agonizing, drawn-out silence of waiting.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
Finally, the radio buzzed. It was Vincent’s voice.
"Dante. It's done. Alberto Falcone is dead. The city is ours." He paused, his breathing heavy. "And tell Lena... her nightmare is officially over."
May you like
I collapsed into a chair, burying my face in my hands as tears of pure, unadulterated relief flooded my face. The war was over. I was free.
---
