Chapter 8 - Darkness in Room 206
The sudden plunge into darkness triggered total chaos in the suite.
Bang!
A wild gunshot ripped through the darkness, the muzzle flash illuminating the room for a split second like a bolt of lightning, shattering the mirror above the dresser into a thousand glittering shards.
“Get down!” Michael’s voice roared from somewhere near the window.
Lorenzo hit the carpet hard, the impact sending a fresh wave of agonizing fire through his ribs, but the shock cleared his head just enough to override the paralysis creeping through his veins. He scrambled blindly across the floor, his fingers searching for the heavy brass leg of the mahogany desk.
In the dim amber glow filtering in from the streetlamps through the broken windows, shadows moved like ghosts.
“Michael! Don’t be a fool!” Vincent’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Shoot him! If he lives, we lose everything!”
A heavy scuffle broke out near the connecting doorway. Elena had tackled one of Michael’s enforcers, the two of them crashing into a floor lamp that clattered loudly against the floorboards.
Lorenzo pulled himself up by the edge of a velvet chair, his breathing ragged. He couldn't feel his left arm anymore, but his right hand still held the Sig Sauer with a death grip. He aimed toward the faint outline of his father standing near the shattered mirror.
“It ends here, Dad,” Lorenzo called out, his voice echoing in the dark room.
“Does it?” Vincent’s voice came from right beside the doorway, surprisingly close.
Before Lorenzo could turn, a heavy arm wrapped around his neck from behind, pressing a cold steel barrel against his temple.
“Drop the gun, little brother,” Michael whispered hoarsely in his ear, his breath smelling of scotch and cold sweat. “I didn’t survive twelve years in the dirt just to watch you blow our father’s brains out on a hotel carpet.”
Lorenzo’s finger hovered over the trigger of his own gun, but he knew if he moved an inch, Michael’s bullet would go straight through his skull.
Then, a sudden, sharp click echoed near the light switch by the door.
The overhead chandelier flickered once, then burst back into blinding, brilliant white light.
Everyone froze.
Standing by the door with her hand still resting on the brass switch was Isabella. Her crimson silk dress was stained with dust, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders, but in her right hand, she wasn't holding a phone or a purse.
She was holding Vincent’s heavy, blued-steel revolver, pointed directly at Michael’s chest.
Michael’s eyes widened in disbelief as he stared down the barrel of the gun resting in Isabella’s hand. “Isabella... are you out of your mind? Put that down.”
“I’m done being a pawn in your family’s game, Michael,” Isabella said, her voice shaking slightly, but her aim unwavering. “Drop the gun. Now.”
Vincent sneered from the doorway, taking a slow step forward. “She won’t shoot you, Michael. She’s too smart to throw her life away for a dying man.”
Isabella didn’t look at Vincent. She looked straight into Michael’s eyes, her expression cold and resolved. “Try me.”
With a slow, reluctant curse, Michael loosened his arm from Lorenzo’s neck and dropped his pistol to the carpet with a heavy thud.
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Lorenzo stumbled forward, gasping for air, clutching his burning chest as he fell to his knees near the desk. He looked up at Isabella, the room spinning around him as the final waves of the poison pulled him toward the dark.
And then, the sound of heavy boots echoing up the private elevator shaft broke the silence—followed by the unmistakable sound of federal sirens wailing down on the street below.
