Chapter 8 - BLOOD ON THE MARBLE
“Move! Into the corner!” Marco barked, shoving Elena into the narrow recess beside the control panel as automatic gunfire erupted from above.
Bullets punched through the thin aluminum roof of the elevator cab like paper, raining jagged metal shards, sparks, and plaster down upon them. Marco returned fire through the hatch, emptying his magazine upward with clinical, terrifying accuracy. A muffled scream echoed down the shaft, followed by the sound of a heavy body tumbling down into the darkness below.
Marco slammed a fresh magazine into his pistol, reached up with one hand, and violently wrenched the emergency escape hatch open.
“Grab my shoulders,” he commanded, extending an arm down to her. “Now, Elena!”
Elena didn't hesitate. Survival instinct erased the tremor in her limbs. She hitched up the heavy emerald silk of her gown, caught Marco’s outstretched hand, and let him haul her upward with raw, astonishing strength. She scrambled through the hatch, tumbling out onto the grimy, grease-slicked top of the elevator cab suspended thirty stories in the air.
The vast concrete elevator shaft was a vertical canyon of shadows, lit only by the strobe of flickering emergency red beacons. Ten feet above them hung an open service door leading to the hotel’s mechanical floor.
Standing in that doorway, silhouetted against the yellow service light, was Leo Salieri. In his hand, he held a heavy revolver.
“You should have let Tommy have her, Marco!” Leo shouted over the howl of the ventilation draft. “Julian’s money would have funded our expansion for twenty years! You’re risking the entire family dynasty for a dead man’s daughter!”
“You broke the blood oath, Leo,” Marco said, stepping in front of Elena on the swaying roof of the cab, his pistol aimed dead at his uncle’s chest. “You sold out your own blood to the Marcone family. There is no coming back from that.”
“I did it for survival!” Leo snarled, raising his revolver. “You’re weak, Marco! Just like your father was!”
A gunshot shattered the air.
Elena screamed, expecting Marco to fall. But it wasn't Marco who took the hit.
A red rose bloomed abruptly in the center of Leo’s crisp blue silk tie. His eyes widened in shock, his revolver slipping from his limp fingers and clattering onto the concrete floor of the service landing. He swayed forward, collapsing over the safety railing, tumbling past them into the bottomless black of the shaft.
Standing behind where Leo had fallen was Don Vincenzo’s personal enforcer, holding a smoking tactical rifle.
“Don Salieri,” the enforcer called down across the empty expanse. “Don Vincenzo sends his regards. He does not tolerate traitors at his table. Take the service stairs. Tommy’s men are waiting in the underground garage, but the north loading dock is clear.”
Marco gave a single, tight nod. He didn't waste time with gratitude. He grabbed Elena by the waist, lifted her up onto the service ledge, and pulled himself up behind her.
They sprinted down the narrow concrete stairwell, their footsteps echoing like machine-gun fire against the industrial cinderblocks. Elena kicked off her high heels, running barefoot across the cold concrete, her hands holding up the torn hem of her dress.
“Where are we going?” she panted, her lungs burning from the exertion.
“To finish this,” Marco replied grimly, not slowing his pace. “Tommy played his final card. He compromised my uncle, attacked us on neutral ground, and broke the Commission’s ruling. He has nowhere left to run.”
They burst out through the heavy fire doors of the north loading dock into the freezing rain. The damp night air hit Elena’s face like a bucket of ice water.
Waiting in the alley was a secondary armored town car, engine idling, headlights cutting through the wet mist. The driver’s door opened, and one of Marco’s lieutenants tossed him a set of keys and a heavy submachine gun.
“They’re raiding your estate in Catoctin, boss,” the lieutenant reported rapidly. “Tommy mobilized thirty men. He thinks you’re still pinned down in the hotel.”
“Good,” Marco said, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling Elena in beside him. “Let them burn down an empty house. Call the strike team. Tell them we meet at Marcone’s shipping terminal at the port. Tonight, we take Tommy’s head.”
Elena looked at him, her chest heaving, the emerald necklace cold against her skin. “What about the ledger? What about my father’s money?”
Marco shifted the car into gear, his ice-blue eyes glowing with a feral, lethal intensity.
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“To hell with the money,” Marco said, flooring the accelerator into the rainy night. “He tried to kill my wife. And for that, I’m taking everything he owns.”
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