Chapter 7 - The Hostage
Clara woke up strapped to a metal chair.
The air smelled of rust, saltwater, and stale cigarettes.
Her head throbbed violently from the chemicals, but she forced her eyes to focus.
She was in the center of a massive, empty warehouse.
Ten heavily armed men wearing the Falcone syndicate colors stood in a circle around her.
Don Falcone himself sat on a wooden crate across from her, smoking a cigar.
He looked like a man who had already won the war.
“So,” Falcone smiled, revealing yellowed teeth.
“You are the little bird that tamed the great Arthur Moretti.”
Clara did not cry.
She did not beg.
Her pragmatism kicked in, colder and sharper than ever before.
“If you are hoping to use me as leverage, you have made a terrible miscalculation,” she said evenly.
Falcone laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the metal roof.
“He went into a burning kitchen for you, sweetheart.”
“He will hand over his entire territory to get you back.”
Clara looked around the room, analyzing the structural weaknesses, the positions of the guards, the exits.
She noticed a heavy chain hoist hanging directly above Falcone’s head, secured to a rusted beam.
She looked back at the rival boss.
“Arthur doesn't trade,” Clara stated, her voice chillingly calm.
“He destroys.”
“When he arrives, he is going to kill every single one of you.”
One of the guards stepped forward and struck her hard across the face.
Clara tasted blood, but she did not break eye contact with Falcone.
“You should have just killed me when you had the chance,” she whispered.
Suddenly, the massive steel doors at the front of the warehouse exploded inward.
A heavy armored truck rammed straight through the barricade, crushing two Falcone guards instantly.
The warehouse erupted into absolute chaos.
Gunfire rained down from the shattered skylights as Arthur’s snipers opened fire.
Clara ducked her head, straining against the zip-ties binding her wrists.
Through the smoke and flying concrete, she saw him.
Arthur walked into the warehouse holding a fully automatic rifle.
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He was not wearing a suit.
He was wearing tactical gear, and he looked like the angel of death.
