Chapter 6 - The Return of the Sledge
The Venetian Club smelled of expensive cigars, aged scotch, and perfume.
The main dining room was filled with soft music, rich businessmen, and crooked politicians who thought they were safe behind the club's velvet ropes. In the private back lounge, elevated three steps above the main floor behind frosted glass doors, Salvatore sat at the head of a long marble table.
He was sixty, overweight, wearing a white silk suit with a gold pinky ring that sparkled under the crystal chandeliers. Surrounded by six of his top capos, he was holding a glass of champagne, laughing at a joke one of his lieutenants had just finished telling.
The frosted glass doors didn't open. They exploded.
The heavy wooden frame splintered into a thousand pieces as Luke kicked it off its hinges. Before the guards inside could even reach for their suits, my men opened fire, sweeping the room with controlled, lethal bursts.
Panic erupted instantly in the main dining room below—screams, shattering glass, furniture overturning as patrons scrambled for the street exits.
Inside the lounge, four of Salvatore’s guards hit the floor, dead before their drinks hit the table. The remaining two were pinned against the back wall, hands raised in absolute terror as Luke covered them with his shotgun.
Salvatore scrambled backward in his leather armchair, knocking over his champagne glass, his face turning the color of curdled milk.
Through the haze of gunsmoke, the quiet hum of an electric motor echoed over the sound of screaming from the floor below.
I rolled through the ruined doorway, stepping—rolling—over the shattered glass, my Kimber held loosely in my right hand, resting on my lap.
The room went dead silent.
Salvatore stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Danny...?"
"Evening, Sal," I said, my voice conversational, perfectly calm. "I heard you were concerned about my health."
"Danny... wait... listen to me," Salvatore stammered, raising his hands, his gold ring trembling violently in the light. "It wasn't... Russo went rogue! I didn't order—"
"Russo is dead in my study," I interrupted. "Marcus is hanging from a meat hook in my garage. And you're sitting in my city, drinking my champagne, pretending you're the boss."
I rolled my chair forward until the front casters bumped against the edge of the marble table. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, looking Salvatore straight in his terrified eyes.
"Two years ago," I said softly, "a sniper put a bullet through my spine. I thought my life was over. I thought the strength of a man was in his legs."
I raised the gun, pressing the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Salvatore’s forehead.
"I was wrong," I whispered. "The strength of a man is in how much blood he's willing to spill to protect what's his."
"Danny, please!" Salvatore wept, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, running down his red cheeks. "I'll give you the docks! I'll give you eighty percent! Just let me walk out of here!"
"You're not walking anywhere, Sal," I said. "Neither am I."
Bang.
The shot echoed through the lounge, sharp and final. Salvatore collapsed forward onto the marble table, his body going limp among the overturned glasses and scattered steak knives.
I lowered the gun, turning my head to look at the two surviving capos who were pressed against the wall, shaking so hard they could barely stand.
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"Tell the rest of the Commission," I said, my voice carrying to every corner of the room, "that the Sledge is back in business. And if anyone so much as looks at my house again... I won't send a warning."
I turned my chair around and rolled out of the ruined lounge, leaving the blood and the smoke behind me.
