Chapter 11 - Under Dante's CrossfireJulian Delacroix knew he was cornered. A lifetime of ruthlessness had stripped him of morality, leaving only the primal instinct of a dying beast.
With blinding speed, Julian reached into his dinner jacket, drawing a snub-nosed revolver. He didn’t aim at Dante.
He aimed directly at Elena.
He knew that if he fired at Dante, Falcone’s men would turn him into Swiss cheese within half a second. But taking out the witness—the woman who held the paper trail—was his only desperate gambit to create a bloodbath in the ballroom.
“Elena!” Dante roared.
Before Julian’s finger could complete the trigger pull, Dante moved with terrifying, unnatural speed. He threw himself across the corner of the table, his heavy forearm slamming down across Julian’s wrist with a sickening crack of bone.
The gun discharged with a muffled BANG.
The bullet went wild, shattering an antique Venetian mirror above the mantle, sending a glittering shower of glass raining down onto the banquet table.
Dante didn’t give the older man a second chance. He gripped Julian by the lapels, hauled him clean out of his chair, and slammed him face-first onto the mahogany banquet table, shattering plates, spilling vintage champagne, and scattering red roses across the ruined cloth.
Dante’s customized semi-automatic was pressed firmly against the base of Julian’s skull before the man could draw another breath.
“Move,” Dante whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal certainty, “and your brains become the next course.”
Giselle shrieked in horror, falling to her knees among the shards of broken glass, clutching her father’s arm.
“Dante! Please! Have mercy! Mon dieu, don't kill him!”
Dante slowly lifted his head, his gray eyes sweeping across the sixty syndicate bosses who stood with their weapons drawn in absolute silence.
“The Delacroix cartel is hereby expelled from the Five Families,” Dante proclaimed, his voice echoing through the vaulted hall. “Every vessel, every warehouse, and every commercial lease bearing their name is forfeited under maritime admiralty law.”
He looked down at Julian, who was groaning in agony against the wood, blood trickling from his broken nose onto the white linen.
“You’re not going to die tonight, Julian,” Dante said with chilling detachment. “You’re going to spend the next thirty years in a federal supermax, watching the docks you stole run under the name of Thomas Vance.”
The heavy double doors of the ballroom burst open once more.
Federal marshals in tactical gear, led by Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance—Elena’s distant cousin who had spent ten years building a racketeering case against Montreal—swept into the room with steel handcuffs ready.
“Julian Delacroix, Giselle Delacroix,” the federal agent announced. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, federal racketeering, and international narcotics trafficking.”
As the agents hauled the weeping heiress and her broken father away in chains, Don Carmine Falcone stepped forward, lowering his weapon.
He looked at Dante, then bowed his head in profound respect toward Elena.
“The Five Families recognize the debt, Dr. Vance,” Falcone said solemnly. “Your father was an honorable man. His daughter is ten times the warrior he was.”
May you like
Elena looked at the assembly of hardened men, feeling an overwhelming, profound sense of closure that settled into her bones like warm sunlight.
“Thank you, Don Carmine,” she replied softly. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me... I have patients to heal.”
Related Stories
