Chapter 7 - The Executioner
Lorenzo slowly and mockingly clapped his hands together, his arrogant laughter echoing loudly down the corridor as he ridiculed our pathetic attempt at a stealthy infiltration.
Before I could even raise my pistol, two massive guards viciously kicked the back of my knees, brutally forcing me down onto the cold, hard ceramic tile floor.
More heavily armed mercenaries aggressively ripped the weapons from Matteo's tightly clenched hands and violently slammed him face-first against the concrete wall.
They aggressively dragged Beatrice forward by her tangled hair, cruelly forcing her to watch as Lorenzo casually aimed his custom silver handgun directly at the center of my forehead.
He arrogantly boasted about how incredibly easy it had been to play the role of my fiercely loyal dog while actively poisoning my entire criminal empire from within.
I just stared up at him with cold, calculating hatred, carefully measuring the exact physical distance between his unprotected throat and my bare, chained hands.
Lorenzo laughed confidently at my silent rage, dramatically cocking the heavy hammer of his gun before slowly turning his murderous gaze toward Matteo.
He gleefully told my captive brother that this time around, he was going to personally make sure the body actually burned down to unrecognizable ash.
Suddenly, a deafening, terrifyingly loud gunshot violently echoed through the massive, cavernous hallway, shaking the very dust from the ornate ceiling.
I instinctively braced every muscle in my body for the agonizing impact of the bullet, but the fatal pain simply never arrived.
Lorenzo's arrogant, victorious smile vanished in an instant as a massive, dark red stain rapidly blossomed across the center of his incredibly expensive white silk shirt.
He wordlessly dropped his silver gun, his eyes rolling back in his head as he collapsed backward onto the floor, choking wetly on his own blood.
The surrounding guards completely panicked, wildly sweeping their tactical rifles in absolutely every direction as they frantically tried to locate the invisible sniper in the shadows.
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A familiar, sharply commanding female voice angrily echoed from the very top landing of the grand marble staircase overlooking the hallway.
My mother stepped gracefully into the harsh tactical lighting, holding a smoking, high-powered hunting rifle and glaring down at her dying right-hand man with absolute disgust.
