Chapter 18 - The Fall of Victor Thorne
The third-floor bedroom fell dead silent, save for the hiss of rain blowing through the shattered skylight and the heavy, ragged breathing of Lorenzo Vance standing amidst the wreckage of his master suite. Four elite operatives from the New York Commission lay dead on the floor, their weapons silenced forever.
Lorenzo lowered his smoking pistols. He looked down at his left arm; the sleeve of his tactical shirt was soaked in crimson, but the wound was clean—a flesh graze that hadn't touched the bone or major arteries.
He walked over to the hidden bookshelf, his boots crunching on shattered glass and brass shell casings. He tapped his knuckles against the reinforced tungsten steel hidden behind the wood in the pre-arranged rhythmic sequence: three slow knocks.
“Matteo,” Lorenzo spoke clearly into the hidden intercom microphone beside the shelf. “It’s Lorenzo. The room is secure.”
There was a tense, agonizing three-second pause. Then, the heavy biometric bolts clicked open with a deep mechanical thud. The bookshelf swung outward, and Elena spilled out into the room, holding Leo tightly against her chest. Her eyes swept the carnage of the bedroom—the dead operatives, the shattered skylight, the blood dripping from Lorenzo’s hand—and she let out a sharp, breathless gasp.
“You’re bleeding!” she cried, rushing toward him, setting Leo down on the carpet so she could inspect his arm with trembling hands. “Lorenzo, oh god, you’re shot!”
“It’s just a scratch, Elena,” Lorenzo said softly, dropping his pistols onto the intact dresser and wrapping his uninjured right arm around her waist, pulling her close against his armored chest. “You’re safe. The kids is safe. That’s all that matters.”
Leo trotted over to Lorenzo’s boots, looking down at one of the fallen operatives with wide, curious amber eyes before looking up at his uncle.
“You broke your bedroom, Uncle Lorenzo,” Leo observed seriously, pointing a chubby finger at the shredded mattress and feathers floating in the air. “The cleaning lady is going to be super mad at you.”
Lorenzo let out a low, exhausted chuckle, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the torn skin on his bicep. “I’ll buy her a new vacuum cleaner, kiddo. Don't worry about it.”
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Dante Russo appeared in the doorway, his face streaked with soot and gunpowder, his assault rifle hanging across his chest. He looked at the four dead operatives on the floor and whistled low through his teeth.
“Ground floor is clear, boss,” Dante reported, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We neutralized eighteen operatives in the foyer and captured three alive at the harbor. The remaining boats retreated back into deep water when they realized the assault squad was wiped out.”
“What about the prisoners?” Lorenzo asked, his expression hardening back into the ruthless Don of Chicago.
“They’re talking,” Dante said grimly. “They confirmed what we suspected. The order came directly from Don Tommaso in New York—the head of the Commission. But here’s the kicker, Lorenzo: they didn't get the architectural blueprints of the panic room from Thorne’s old files.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“Thorne didn't flee to Zurich after we broke up the Romano meeting six months ago,” Dante said, pulling a encrypted satellite phone from his pocket. “He’s been hiding in a safe house on the South Side of Chicago under the Commission’s protection. He personally guided this assault team in via satellite comms tonight. He watched the entire attack on a live feed from three miles away.”
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Lorenzo looked down at Elena, then at little Leo, who was now sleepily rubbing his eyes against his mother’s leg. The threat would never end as long as the architect of their misery was still drawing breath within city limits.
“Dante,” Lorenzo said quietly, reaching for his clean coat in the closet. “Get the SUV ready. We’re going for a drive to the South Side.”
