Chapter 5 - The Butcher’s Bill
Wade Vance was mid-swing, raising his heavy bat to smash the bakery's antique brass cash register, when he felt a shadow fall over him.
He turned around, sneering. "Well, well. Look who stood up. Where's your wheelchair, old man?"
Rocco didn't speak. He didn't offer a warning.
In one fluid, blinding movement, Rocco closed the distance between them. His right hand shot forward, grabbing the heavy wooden bat mid-air with unbelievable speed. With a single twist of his wrist, he snapped the solid ash bat in half like a dry toothpick.
Wade’s eyes bugged out in absolute terror.
Before Wade could scream, Rocco’s left palm slammed upward into Wade’s chin with terrifying force. The impact lifted the two-hundred-pound enforcer off his feet, launching him backward over the smashed display counter. Wade crashed heavily into the wall, unconscious before he hit the floor, blood pouring from his broken jaw.
The four remaining enforcers froze, their shotguns half-raised, their faces pale with sudden, horrifying realization.
"Shoot him!" one of them shrieked, panic surging through his voice.
Rocco didn't give them the chance.
He lunged forward, catching the nearest man by his throat, slamming him face-first into the marble countertop. Steel shattered, wood splintered, and bone cracked as Rocco moved through the room like an unstoppable storm of violence.
A shotgun blasted a hole into the ceiling, raining plaster down on the floor, but Rocco pivoted, grabbing the barrel, ripping the weapon from the shooter's hands, and using the heavy butt of the gun to shatter the man’s collarbone in a single strike.
In less than fourteen seconds, all five men lay unconscious, bleeding, and broken among the ruins of the bakery’s front room.
Rocco stood amidst the destruction, breathing slowly, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. Not a single drop of his own blood was on him.
Clara and Thomas stood in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at him in absolute, stunned silence.
Clara swallowed hard, her eyes wide with a mixture of intense shock and awe. "Who... who are you?"
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Rocco slowly turned to face her. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped a speck of dust from his knuckle.
"My name is Rocco Castellano," he said flatly, his deep voice carrying the weight of authority that had ruled Boston for fifteen years. "My family built the darkness in this town. And starting today, I am going to tear it down."
