Chapter 3 - The syndicate was being reorganized. The attack on the diner had produced a cold war with the Falcone family.
The streets had become quiet in the particular way that usually came before an explosion.
At 9:15 p.m. on a Tuesday, Clara stood in the kitchen pouring ice water.
Vincent sat at the dining table disassembling and cleaning his sidearm. The metallic movements sounded rhythmically through the penthouse.
The power failed without warning.
The rooms went entirely dark.
The air-conditioning stopped, followed by the refrigerator.
Clara dropped the glass.
It shattered across the marble.
“Do not move.”
Vincent’s voice came from the darkness as a command.
A magazine entered his weapon, followed by the sound of a round being chambered.
Red emergency lights appeared along the baseboards and filled the rooms with a dark glow.
Backup power was supporting only essential systems.
Vincent appeared beside Clara and closed a hand around her upper arm.
He examined the windows and surrounding shadows.
“The electrical grid did not fail.”
He pointed outside.
The rest of the skyline remained illuminated.
“Someone isolated this building. It is an organized breach.”
A heavy explosion rose through the structure and vibrated beneath Clara’s feet.
“They used explosives at ground level,” Vincent said. “The lobby doors have been attacked.”
The penthouse entrance opened violently.
Clara screamed and stepped backward.
Vincent moved between her and the doorway with his weapon raised.
“Do not fire. It is me.”
Frankie entered the red light while breathing hard. A tactical rifle crossed his chest.
Dino followed with an equipment bag.
“Report,” Vincent ordered.
“Falcone.”
Frankie closed the deadbolts.
“He sent an army rather than an assassination team. They attacked the parking structure and lobby simultaneously. Primary communications and surveillance are disabled.”
He looked at Vincent.
“Approximately 40 men are climbing the stairwells. The elevators no longer function.”
“How much time?”
“Ten minutes, probably less. They are using explosives on the fire doors.”
Frankie looked toward Clara.
“We must enter the panic room. The weather prevents the extraction helicopter from landing.”
Vincent turned toward Clara.
“Walk quickly.”
They moved through the hallway toward the master bedroom.
A reinforced steel vault had been concealed beyond the walk-in wardrobe. It contained independent ventilation, medical equipment, and a direct wired connection to external syndicate forces.
Clara forced her legs forward.
Adrenaline concealed the ordinary pain in her back.
As she entered the wardrobe, a violent contraction closed around her lower abdomen.
It felt like a steel band tightening through her body.
Clara lost her breath and seized the edge of a dresser.
Several bottles of cologne fell.
“Clara.”
Vincent caught her beneath the arms.
The pain prevented speech.
Her fingers closed around his forearms while she waited for the contraction to pass.
When it released her, she looked down.
A dark stain was spreading along the inside of her gray sweatpants and dripping onto the carpet.
Her water had broken.
“No.”
The fear of labor replaced the fear of the soldiers below them.
“Not now. Please.”
Vincent stared at the floor.
The tactician who calculated deaths and coordinated armed defenses stopped completely.
“Boss,” Frankie shouted. “They have reached the 70th floor. We need to secure the room.”
Vincent looked up.
The hesitation disappeared beneath primal concentration.
He lifted Clara into his arms.
The movement caused another spike of pain, and she held his neck while pressing her face into his shoulder.
He carried her into the panic room.
The concrete chamber was illuminated by severe white lights.
A steel cot had been fixed to the floor. Metal cabinets contained ammunition, military food, and trauma supplies.
Vincent placed Clara carefully on the cot.
“Dino.”
The man entered and dropped the equipment bag.
“Yes, boss?”
“Use the wired line and contact Dr. Keller. Tell him that if he is not inside this building in 5 minutes, I will remove his skin.”
“The lobby is full of Falcone soldiers. Keller cannot enter.”
“Find a method.”
Vincent’s voice struck the walls.
Another contraction seized Clara sooner and with greater force.
She arched and cried out while gripping the edge of the cot.
“It is happening.”
She met Vincent’s eyes.
“He is coming.”
Frankie listened near the entrance.
“They have reached this floor.”
Vincent turned away from Clara and prepared his handgun.
“Secure the vault door. You and Dino hold the hallway.”
“There are approximately 40 of them,” Frankie said.
“I do not care if there are 100. Hold the line.”
Frankie nodded and left the vault.
Vincent closed the steel door.
Multiple locking mechanisms entered position with a sequence of heavy sounds.
They were sealed inside.
A king, his runaway queen, and the child demanding birth inside a concrete tomb.
Gunfire began approximately 3 minutes later.
The vault reduced it to dull, repeated impacts, but automatic weapons made the cabinets vibrate.
Explosions destroyed the penthouse Vincent had constructed above the city.
Inside the vault, existence narrowed to blood and pain.
“Breathe,” Vincent ordered.
He had removed his jacket and holster. His shirt sleeves were rolled back.
The hands ordinarily used for violence rested against Clara’s knees and held her steady.
“I cannot.”
Clara cried out on the narrow cot.
Sweat and amniotic fluid covered her clothing. Pain pulled her beneath its surface.
“You can. You must.”
Vincent kept his voice controlled, although his face had become pale.
He tore open a trauma kit and scattered gauze and tourniquets until he found a sterile sheet and surgical scissors.
He used the battlefield medicine he understood and adapted it to childbirth.
Another explosion moved through the vault.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
“They are going to enter,” Clara said. “They will kill him.”
“Look at me.”
Vincent moved into her sight and held her face between his hands.
“No one will pass through that door.”
His palms were strong and warm.
“Concentrate on me and on the child. Push.”
Clara screamed and forced her body to work.
The room appeared to divide around her.
The overhead lights flickered as the remaining building systems failed. Only the deep red emergency illumination remained.
Gunfire grew more intense beyond the door.
Frankie and Dino were losing ground.
Heavy footsteps entered the master bedroom outside.
A bullet struck the exterior of the vault.
Vincent did not react.
His attention remained on Clara.
“Again. Harder. He is almost here.”
Clara inhaled and pushed.
She used the fear and exhaustion accumulated during the months in the diner.
She continued until vessels broke inside her eyes and the world became a narrow field of red light.
Then the pressure released.
A child’s cry cut through the vault, clearer and louder than the gunfire.
Clara collapsed against the cot, breathing rapidly as tears crossed her face.
She could not immediately see.
Vincent stood at the end of the cot holding a small, moving weight in bloodstained hands.
The boy cried in anger, his face purple and his fists striking the air.
Vincent stared at him.
For the first time, the leader of the Rossi organization forgot to breathe.
The armor protecting him from his world broke completely.
Tears filled his eyes and moved over his dust-covered face.
He did not see an heir or political instrument.
He saw a fragile and innocent life.
Vincent wrapped the child in a sterile trauma sheet with extraordinary gentleness.
He moved beside Clara and knelt.
The crying infant was placed against her chest.
Clara held him against her skin and wept.
She pressed her face into the damp dark hair on his head and breathed in the clean scent of new life.
Vincent placed his arms around both of them and buried his face against Clara’s neck.
They remained together on the steel cot, a small living island surrounded by violence.
Then the gunfire stopped.
Silence enclosed the penthouse.
Vincent raised his head.
The tenderness withdrew, and the killer returned.
He reached for the discarded handgun and stood between the cot and the door.
The weapon aimed at the center of the steel.
A heavy knock came from outside.
“Boss?”
Frankie’s voice sounded weak and damaged.
“It is clear. We held them. Reinforcements reached the floor through the stairwell.”
He struggled for breath.
“The Falcone team has been eliminated.”
Vincent lowered the gun and released a shaking breath.
He did not open the door immediately.
He turned toward Clara.
She looked down at their child beneath the red light.
Then she raised her eyes to Vincent.
They both understood the reality around them.
They had survived the night.
Another rival, attack, or bunker would eventually follow.
Vincent returned to the cot and touched the baby’s closed fist with 1 finger.
“I believed I could force you to live inside my world,” he said.
It was not an order.
It was surrender.
“I thought the cage was large and strong enough to make you happy.”
“The cage remains a cage.”
“I know.”
Vincent looked at Clara and their son.
“He will not grow up inspecting cars for explosives. He will not learn how to remove blood from my clothing.”
“How?” Clara asked. “You control the family. You cannot simply leave. They will hunt us wherever we go.”
“They will not.”
Cold calculation returned to Vincent’s eyes, directed not at an enemy but at his own position.
“By tomorrow, the Rossi Syndicate will no longer exist.”
Clara stared at him.
“I will dismantle the network, sell the territories, destroy the records, and execute anyone who attempts to prevent its dissolution.”
“You would destroy your empire for us?”
“I would destroy the world for you.”
Vincent leaned down and kissed Clara’s damp forehead.
“You wanted freedom. I will purchase it for us with blood, and then there will be no more.”
May you like
He moved toward the steel door to face the remains of his kingdom.
Behind him, in the protected darkness, his son drew another breath, unaware that his father was preparing to set the underworld on fire to keep him warm.
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