Chapter 3 - Blood and Betrayal
The heavy kitchen doors hit the marble floor with a resounding crash. Four masked figures clad in matte-black tactical gear swarmed through the opening, assault rifles raised and sweeping the room.
Panic intensified as a stray round chewed through a velvet curtain, sending plumes of dust into the air.
"Down!" Dominic yelled, shoving Beatrice behind the thickest part of the marble column.
Instead of hiding, Beatrice dropped to one knee, flicked on the weapon light of her Glock, and fired twice through the haze.
Bang! Bang!
The lead intruder dropped instantly, a clean double-tap through the center of his ceramic plate carrier taking the wind and the fight out of him. The remaining three mercenaries scattered, returning wild suppressing fire that chipped marble shards off Dominic's pillar and blew out the remaining candles.
Dominic didn't hesitate. He stepped out from cover, returning fire with lethal precision. Two rounds caught the second operative in the shoulder, spinning him into a mahogany dessert table.
"Mateo! Get the fuck over here!" Dominic yelled across the ruined ballroom, catching sight of his second-in-command cowering behind the bar.
Mateo stumbled out from behind the bar, his face white as a ghost, clutching a pistol like it was a venomous snake. But instead of running toward Dominic and Beatrice, Mateo began sprinting toward the side exit, clutching a bulky manila envelope tucked inside his jacket—the ledger.
Dominic’s heart hammered against his ribs. The betrayal wasn't a suspicion anymore; it was a living, breathing horror right in front of his eyes. Mateo had sold them out.
"He's running with the books," Beatrice said, tracking Mateo through her pistol sights. "Shall I drop him?"
"No," Dominic growled, a dark, dangerous promise settling deep into his bones. "He's mine."
The third mercenary rounded the pillar, bringing his rifle up to bear directly on Beatrice. Moving with terrifying speed, Beatrice ducked beneath the barrel, drove the heel of her stiletto shoe down onto the man's instep with bone-crushing force, and whipped the butt of her Glock into the side of his temple. He collapsed like a sack of wet cement.
The fourth and final operative tried to retreat back through the kitchen doors, but Dominic caught him in three long strides, slammed his head against the doorframe, and disarmed him with a swift kick to the knee.
Silence descended upon the ballroom, broken only by the crackle of a small electrical fire near the ruined string quartet stage and the terrified whimpers of hiding socialites.
Dominic stood amid the wreckage, his chest heaving, his charcoal suit stained with dust and powder residue. He looked down at Beatrice, who was calmly ejecting her empty magazine, sliding a fresh one into her Glock, and tucking the weapon back into her dress as if she had just finished a casual stroll in the park.
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"You're full of surprises, Beatrice Gallagher," Dominic said softly, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and suppressed fury.
"Gallagher," she repeated with a tight, humorless smile. "My father was Michael Gallagher. The man Mateo’s uncle had executed five years ago to seize the docks on the south side. I didn't come to this gala for charity, Dominic. I came for justice."
