Chapter 15 - Sunday Morning Massacre
The historic, isolated stone church on the rural outskirts of Rhode Island was completely empty and suffocatingly silent on that freezing Sunday morning.
Lorenzo Moretti, fueled by a decade of burning hatred and arrogant confidence, arrived with three heavily armored SUVs packed full of heavily armed, psychopathic mercenaries.
They aggressively surrounded the quiet, seemingly unprotected church, kicking the heavy wooden doors completely off their iron hinges with brutal force.
Lorenzo confidently marched down the center aisle with a fully automatic assault rifle raised, fully expecting to find Allessandro praying helplessly at the altar.
Instead, he found absolutely nothing but empty wooden pews and a completely silent, eerie sanctuary bathed in pale morning light.
Suddenly, a hidden, high-frequency radio jammer aggressively activated, completely cutting off all of the Boston crew's tactical communications.
Before Lorenzo could even shout a frantic order to retreat, the intricate stained-glass windows of the church violently shattered inward all at once.
Dozens of flashbang grenades rained down mercilessly from the hidden upper balcony, detonating with a blinding, deafening concussive force that brought the mercenaries to their knees.
Allessandro’s elite, heavily armed tactical team, led by the ruthless Luca, breached the church from secret underground access tunnels with terrifying, coordinated precision.
A horrific, incredibly violent firefight erupted instantly, instantly turning the sacred, peaceful sanctuary into a brutal, bloody slaughterhouse.
Lorenzo fired his weapon blindly through the thick, choking gray smoke, completely abandoning his dying men as he desperately sprinted toward a side exit.
He managed to violently kick his way out of a side door, tumbling aggressively into the freezing, snow-covered graveyard behind the building.
He limped frantically toward the treeline, bleeding heavily from a sharp piece of shrapnel buried deep in his left thigh.
Just as he reached the absolute edge of the dark woods, a massive, terrifyingly calm figure stepped out from behind a towering marble headstone.
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Allessandro Romano stood perfectly still in the falling snow, aiming a heavy, black revolver directly at Lorenzo’s wildly beating heart.
The psychotic Boston boss completely froze in his tracks, realizing with absolute, horrifying clarity that he had just walked directly into his own permanent grave.
