Chapter 5 - The Fall of Sloane
The hallway was a war zone of shadows and red emergency light. Rain pounded mercilessly against the glass windows as thunder boomed across the city sky.
Two of Sloane’s mercs advanced cautiously past the grand piano, their automatic rifles raised. They were professional killers, but they were operating in my house—a territory I knew better than the back of my own hand.
I stepped out from behind a marble pillar, firing three rapid shots.
The first two rounds took down the lead shooter before he could pull his trigger. The second merc spun around, spraying gunfire into the pillar, shattering chunks of marble into the air. I ducked low, rolled across the hardwood floor, and fired two rounds straight through his chest. He collapsed heavily against the glass wall.
"Moretti!" a harsh, gravelly voice echoed from the main entrance.
Patrick Sloane himself stepped into the grand living room. He was in his late fifties, wearing a heavy leather coat, holding a high-caliber handgun. Beside him stood his chief enforcer, a hulking murderer known as "The Bear."
"You ruined my daughter, Moretti!" Sloane roared, his eyes wild with desperate madness. "You ruined my family! You gave my entire life's work to the feds!"
"Your daughter abused my children, Patrick," I said, stepping out into the dim red light of the living room, my gun raised and pointed directly at his forehead. "You brought this on yourselves."
"Kill him!" Sloane screamed to his enforcer.
The Bear raised his weapon, but before he could fire, a deafening shot echoed from the balcony doors behind them.
The heavy glass slammed open, and Marcus, alongside three of my elite tactical operatives, breached the room. A hail of gunfire cut down The Bear instantly.
Sloane panicked, turning his gun toward Marcus, but I closed the distance in two lunging strides. I kicked the handgun from Sloane’s grip, grabbed him by his lapels, and slammed him face-first onto the massive mahogany dining table.
The wood cracked under the impact.
I pinned his arm behind his back, pressing the hot barrel of my pistol directly against the base of his skull.
"It's over, Patrick," I hissed into his ear, my breath heavy and lethal. "Your daughter is in federal custody. Your money is gone. Your men are dead."
Sloane lay panting, bruised, and defeated on the table. "Shoot me then... do it, Moretti..."
"No," I said coldly, pulling his arm back until he winced in agony. "You don't get the easy way out. You're going to spend the rest of your days in a tiny steel cell, knowing that a housekeeper and the widower you tried to destroy took everything you ever owned."
Sirens wailed in the distance below Lake Shore Drive. Dozens of red and blue lights illuminated the rain-slicked streets as FBI tactical teams and Chicago police units surrounded the skyscraper.
Marcus stepped forward, securing Sloane in heavy zip-ties as federal agents flooded into the penthouse through the main doors, taking control of the scene.
I lowered my weapon, ejected the magazine, and engaged the safety.
I turned away from the chaos, ignoring the shouting agents and the flashing lights, and walked straight toward the library panic room.
I punched in the six-digit override code on the keypad. The heavy steel door unlatched and swung open.
Inside, Naomi sat on the floor, holding Jack and Rosie in her arms. When the door opened, all three of them looked up.
I dropped my weapon onto the shelf outside, stepped inside, and dropped to my knees, opening my arms wide.
Rosie and Jack buried themselves in my chest, crying tears of pure relief and safety. I held them tighter than I had ever held anything in my life.
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Over their shoulders, I looked up at Naomi. She smiled softly through her tears, nodding gently at me.
"It's over," I whispered to my children, kissing their foreheads. "We're safe now. I've got you."
