Chapter 9 - The Poison in the Chianti
Heavy concussive blasts shook the bedrock beneath our feet as Dominic’s armored gunboats pounded the estate’s outer seawall with heavy 50-caliber fire. Plaster dust drifted down from the vaulted stone ceilings, settling like fine snow over the rows of vintage wine barrels.
Through the heavy wrought-iron water gate that opened directly onto the dark waters of Lake Como, the roar of twin outboard engines grew deafeningly loud.
“They’re cutting through the iron grates with hydraulic torches,” Marco whispered, signaling his six tactical operators to raise their suppressed rifles.
Sparks showered into the black water as the heavy iron bars were severed. The water gate swung inward, and a reinforced Zodiac inflatable boat surged into the underground slipway, carrying eight heavily armed mercenaries in black tactical gear and night-vision goggles.
“ENGAGE!” Alessandro roared.
The subterranean cellar exploded into a deafening storm of muzzle flashes and echoing gunfire. Alessandro fired with surgical, terrifying precision, cutting down the two point-men before their boots touched the wet stone dock. Marco and his operators opened up a devastating crossfire from behind the oak casks, forcing the surviving mercenaries to scramble for cover behind the overturned boat.
From the rear of the slipway, a second boat surged forward, and a massive man in a Kevlar vest leaped onto the stone landing, firing an automatic shotgun with reckless, brutal fury.
It was Dominic Vance.
His weathered, scarred face was twisted into a mask of psychotic rage, his eyes wild as he swept his shotgun toward our barricade.
“BARSOTTI!” Dominic screamed over the gunfire. “You destroyed my brother! You stole our empire! I’ll drown this whole family in their own wine!”
A heavy blast from Dominic’s shotgun shattered the wooden cask beside Alessandro, spraying dark red vintage wine and splintered oak across the floor. Alessandro rolled to the next pillar, returning fire, but his rifle clicked empty—his magazine exhausted.
Dominic capitalized on the split second, charging forward with a heavy combat blade drawn from his tactical vest, lunging straight toward Alessandro’s exposed position.
“Alessandro!” I screamed.
I didn't think about my stitched ribs. I didn't think about the danger.
I stepped out from behind my stone pillar, raised the compact 9mm with both hands, disengaged the safety with my thumb, and squeezed the trigger twice.
*BANG! BANG!*
The two rounds struck Dominic squarely in his right thigh and hip. The massive mercenary stumbled with a roar of pain, his forward momentum broken as his knee slammed onto the wet stone floor.
Alessandro moved like a striking viper. He closed the distance in a single stride, sweeping Dominic’s combat blade aside with his left forearm and driving a devastating right hook into Dominic’s jaw.
Dominic collapsed onto his back, his shotgun skidding across the wet floor into the black water of the slipway.
Before Dominic could reach for his backup sidearm, Alessandro planted his heavy combat boot squarely on Dominic’s throat, pressing down with enough force to cut off his airway. He leveled his Beretta directly between Dominic’s eyes.
“Drop the weapon,” Alessandro whispered, his voice slicing through the dissipating gunsmoke like a frozen blade.
Dominic’s surviving mercenaries, seeing their commander pinned and surrounded by Marco’s laser sights, immediately threw their weapons onto the dock and raised their hands in surrender.
Dominic choked beneath Alessandro’s boot, blood spilling from his split lip, his eyes wide with venomous shock as he looked past Alessandro toward where I stood, the smoking 9mm held steady in my hands.
“The... the maid...?” Dominic wheezed, his voice bubbling with blood.
“The future mistress of Lake Como,” Alessandro corrected coldly.
He didn't pull the trigger. He signaled Marco. “Zip-tie him. Hand him over to the federal authorities alongside Julian and Camilla. Let the entire Vance family rot together in maximum security.”
Alessandro turned and walked straight toward me through the haze of gunpowder and spilled wine. He took the weapon gently from my hands, engaged the safety, and tucked it into his holster.
Then, without saying a word, he pulled me into his arms, crushing me against his chest with a fierce, trembling desperation.
His heartbeat pounded wildly against my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
“You saved me, Clara,” he murmured, his voice shaking with raw, overwhelming emotion. “You stood between me and death twice in twenty-four hours.”
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“I told you, Alessandro,” I whispered, resting my head against his shoulder as the adrenaline slowly drained from my body. “We protect this house together.”
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