Chapter 6 - THE BETRAYAL AT THE GATES
“Dominic—!” I screamed, throwing myself forward without thinking, shoving him violently to the side.
CRACK!
A bullet slammed into the wooden workbench behind us, showering wood splinters across the room.
Dominic caught me by the waist as we hit the dusty floor, rolling us behind the heavy iron body of an overturned tractor. His expression was a mask of cold, lethal focus. He didn't yell, didn't panic—he simply raised his weapon over the hood of the tractor and fired three rapid shots toward the perimeter wall.
A muffled cry of pain echoed from the darkness beyond the courtyard lights, followed by the sound of someone scrambling backward over the iron railing.
“Stay down,” Dominic ordered me, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder.
He looked back toward the open doorway. Through the drifting smoke, the heavy iron gates of the main estate were swinging wide open. Headlights cut through the fog as two sleek black sedans roared up the main drive, screeching to a halt right in front of the fountain.
Doors flew open. Armed men in identical tactical gear swarmed the grounds, but they weren't Vanguard mercenaries.
They wore the private insignia of the Romano Syndicate’s internal security detail—the men directly under Anthony’s personal command.
And stepping out of the lead vehicle, flanked by four heavily armed guards, was Anthony himself.
He didn't look like the terrified, cowering brother we had left locked in the vault a half-hour ago. His tie was gone, his collar was open, and a cold, ruthless smile played across his lips. In his right hand, he held a secured satellite phone, speaking into it with casual authority.
“Secure the perimeter,” Anthony’s voice echoed clearly across the courtyard. “Leave no one alive in the guesthouse, and bring me the girl and the old woman. If Dominic resists, put a bullet in his knee.”
Inside the shed, Evelyn clutched my arm, her frail fingers digging into my skin.
“He’s taken control of the syndicate council,” Evelyn whispered hoarsely. “He told them you were a rogue agent working with external rivals to dismantle the family. They believe his lies.”
Dominic slowly rose to a crouch, his eyes fixed on his brother through the shattered doorway.
“He’s using the emergency protocol,” Dominic said, his voice dangerously low. “The council will back whoever holds the physical registry keys. And right now... Anthony has the family vault codes.”
“Not all of them,” I said quickly.
Dominic turned his head sharply toward me. “What?”
I reached down and tapped the heavy iron key resting inside the open wooden sewing box.
“The key to the Zurich safe deposit box isn't in the vault,” I said. “It was hidden in this box the whole time. If Anthony has the vault codes, he has the history—but you have the future. The deeds to the shipping ports are in that Swiss bank, not the house.”
Dominic stared at me for a second, a strange, intense light flickering in his gray eyes—something that looked dangerously close to profound respect mixed with raw emotion.
“Claire,” Dominic said softly, “you have more courage than half my syndicate captains.”
Before I could answer, Anthony’s amplified voice boomed across the courtyard through a megaphone from one of the SUVs.
“Dominic! I know you’re in there! It’s over, brother—or whatever we’re calling ourselves these days!” Anthony laughed harshly. “Step out with your hands behind your head, and maybe I’ll let the seamstress and the brat walk out of the state alive. You can't fight an entire syndicate by yourself!”
Dominic looked down at Noah, who was sniffling quietly, holding a corner of my jacket. Then he looked at Evelyn, whose eyes pleaded with him not to surrender.
Dominic stood up slowly, stepping out of the shattered doorway into the pale moonlight, his hands raised palms forward.
“I’m right here, Anthony,” Dominic called out, his voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard. “Drop the megaphone and come face your brother like a man.”
Anthony stepped forward from behind the shield of two tactical guards, a smug grin plastered across his face. He held a pistol casually by his side.
“Face you?” Anthony sneered, walking closer to the steps of the parts shed. “Why would I face you when I hold all the cards? You’re a fraud, Dominic. The council just ratified my emergency leadership transfer ten minutes ago. You aren't even a true Romano—you’re just a bastard child picked off the streets of Palermo to fill a cradle!”
Dominic didn't flinch. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them.
“Is that what mother told you before you let her die?” Dominic asked, his voice cutting through the night air like a razor blade.
Anthony’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “She was insane. Just like this old seamstress.”
“She wasn't insane, Anthony,” a weak, trembling voice rang out from inside the shed.
Evelyn slowly stood up, leaning against the doorframe for support. She stepped out into the moonlight, her eighty-year-old posture straight and unyielding, holding the small wooden sewing box in her hands.
“She knew you were skimming from the textile syndicate to fund your gambling debts in Monaco,” Evelyn said loudly, her voice carrying across the entire courtyard. “She knew you were the one who switched her medication. And she knew that the moment Dominic turned thirty-five, the true ownership of the shipping ports would legally transfer to him under Sicilian maritime law.”
Anthony’s face twisted into an ugly mask of rage. He raised his pistol, pointing it directly at Evelyn’s chest.
“Shut your mouth, you miserable old hag!” Anthony screamed.
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“Do it, Anthony!” Dominic roared, moving with terrifying speed, drawing his weapon and leveling it straight at his brother’s head. “Pull the trigger, and you’ll die before the bullet leaves the barrel. And the entire council will watch you burn.”
Anthony froze, his finger tightening on the trigger, sweat beading on his forehead as he stared down the barrel of Dominic’s gun.
