Chapter 32 - Bloodlines and Bulletproof Glass
By 2:00 AM, the Valente compound had been transformed into a military command center.
Julian had called in every favor, every off-book contractor, and every loyal soldier remaining under his command. Thirty heavily armed men, clad in unmarked black tactical gear, were loading drum magazines and prepping thermal scopes in the subterranean garage.
In the center of the room, strapped to an iron chair beneath the blinding white glare of a halogen work light, sat Vittorio’s chief of security—Marco. He had survived the cathedral slaughter by playing dead among the choir pews, only to be dragged back by Julian’s sweepers.
His face was already bruised purple, blood dripping from his split lips onto his designer shirt.
"I don't know where the old man went!" Marco spat, glaring at Julian. "Kill me! Luciano will skin you all alive anyway! You don't understand who he is... he’s the Devil himself!"
The garage door clicked open.
Clara walked in.
She was no longer wearing the ruined remnants of her wedding dress. She was clad in matte-black combat fatigues, combat boots laced tight, her blonde hair braided back fiercely against her scalp. In her right hand, she carried an aluminum baseball bat. In her left, a pair of heavy-duty industrial pliers.
Julian stepped back, raising a hand to signal his men to give her room.
Marco sneered, trying to sound mocking despite his trembling knees. "What is this? The little bride wants to play tough? You think you can intimidate me, little girl?"
Clara didn't say a single word.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't deliver a villainous monologue.
She simply stepped forward, swung the aluminum bat with the full torque of her hips, and shattered Marco’s right kneecap into powder.
The sickening *CRACK* echoed through the concrete chamber, followed immediately by an ear-splitting scream of pure agony that tore through Marco’s throat. He arched his back, gasping for air, tears and sweat pouring down his face as he choked on his own vomit.
"That was for Salieri," Clara whispered, stepping closer, resting the cool aluminum against his cheek.
"You're a monster..." Marco wept, his vision swimming in agony.
Clara set the bat down, picked up the pliers, and gripped the pinky finger of his left hand.
"My daughter is six months old," Clara whispered, leaning down until her breath touched his ear. "She gets scared in the dark. She needs her mother. Every second she spends breathing the same air as that rotting corpse you worship, a piece of my soul turns into ash. If you don't give me the location of the extraction point in three seconds, I am going to peel the skin off every finger you have, and then I will move to your teeth."
"Clara..." Constance murmured from the shadows of the doorway, a look of profound, terrifying realization dawning on the matriarch's face. *The girl wasn't just a survivor. She was her father's daughter. She was a true Valente.*
"One," Clara said, squeezing the pliers until the metal pinched through skin and touched bone.
"Wait! Wait! Mother of God, stop!" Marco shrieked, his composure completely collapsing into hysterical sobs. "The Venetian Foundry! The old glassworks on the canal! He has a submarine dock on the lower level! He’s putting her on an iron-hulled cargo vessel bound for Montenegro at dawn!"
Clara squeezed anyway, snapping the small bone with a crisp click. Marco howled, fainting dead away into his chest.
Clara dropped the pliers onto the concrete. It landed with a hollow clatter. She wiped a fleck of blood from her cheek with the back of her glove, then turned to Julian.
May you like
"Load the shotguns," she ordered, her voice chillingly steady. "We're going to the foundry."
***
