Chapter 66
The silence in the subterranean war room of the Moretti estate was absolute. The power grid had been violently severed, the massive digital monitors dead and black. Emergency red strobes pulsed rhythmically, casting long, bloody shadows across the concrete walls.
Vincent Castalano stood at the head of the obsidian table, fully geared in heavy tactical armor. His assault rifle hung securely across his broad chest, his twin, customized 9mm pistols holstered at his hips.
He wasn't panicked. He was the King of Chicago, and he had spent his entire life preparing for the dark.
"They hit the primary fiber-optic lines and deployed localized EMP jammers," Marco reported, checking his analog watch in the red light. "We are completely blind, Boss. No cameras, no external comms."
"We don't need cameras to know they are coming, Marco," Vincent said smoothly, his deep voice radiating calm, lethal authority.
Silas racked the slide of his heavy machine gun, standing by the heavy steel blast doors. "Perimeter guards report multiple heavy transport vehicles breaching the outer gates. They aren't trying to be stealthy, Boss. They are bringing heavy ordinance. RPGs, thermal lances."
"The Leviathan," Vincent murmured. "They think they can crack this fortress with brute force."
"What are your orders, Boss?" Silas asked, eager for the fight.
"Hold the choke points on the ground floor. Make them pay for every inch of marble they step on," Vincent commanded. "But do not let them push you into a corner. If the line breaks, fall back to the Prohibition tunnels. We fight a guerrilla war in the walls."
Vincent turned and walked rapidly toward the secure panic room at the back of the bunker. He punched the manual, analog override code. The heavy steel door hissed open.
Inside, illuminated by a battery-powered lantern, sat Clara. She held a sleeping baby Aurora in one arm, and held seven-year-old Luca close to her side with the other. She looked terrified, but her hazel eyes burned with fierce, matriarchal resolve.
"They're here," Clara whispered, looking up at him.
"I know," Vincent said softly, stepping into the room and kneeling in front of her. He gently brushed a golden curl from Luca’s forehead. "You are safe in this room, Clara. The titanium doors will hold against their thermal lances for hours. By then, the local police will respond to the noise."
"I don't trust the police to save us, Vincent," Clara said fiercely, gripping his armored sleeve. "I trust you. Come back to us."
"I always do," Vincent promised, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to her lips.
He stood up, the loving father vanishing completely, replaced by the apex predator. He walked out of the panic room, sealing the heavy blast doors behind him.
The muffled, concussive thud of a breaching charge echoed from the ground floor above, violently shaking dust from the concrete ceiling of the bunker.
The assault had begun.
Vincent didn't wait in the basement. He ascended the main stairwell, his suppressed rifle raised.
He emerged into the grand foyer. It was a chaotic, smoke-filled warzone. Dozens of heavily armored Leviathan operatives poured through the shattered front doors, engaging in brutal, close-quarters combat with Vincent’s loyal ghost guards.
Vincent didn't seek cover. He surged into the fray, a demon unleashed. He fired with surgical, mechanical precision, dropping three operatives before they could even orient their weapons toward him.
"Push them back!" Vincent roared over the deafening gunfire.
The battle was ferocious. The Leviathan operatives were highly trained, executing flawless tactical maneuvers, but they were fighting a man who knew every blind spot and shadow of his own home.
Vincent transitioned smoothly to his sidearm, taking down an operative attempting to flank Silas.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the ruined foyer, amplified by a localized megaphone.
"Don Moretti!"
The gunfire momentarily paused as the Leviathan operatives held their positions.
Standing in the center of the shattered doorway, silhouetted by the burning wreckage of a security vehicle outside, was a tall, imposing man in a heavy naval trench coat. He carried a customized, high-caliber sniper rifle.
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"I am Commander Volkov of the Leviathan," the man called out, his voice thick with a harsh Russian accent. "I have come to collect the debt of the old world."
"You came to die in my house, Volkov," Vincent stated coldly, aiming his pistol squarely at the man’s chest.
