Chapter 9 - The Snow Red with Blood
The back garden was a nightmare of fire, snow, and flying lead.
The heavy THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted on the back of a black armored vehicle was chewing through the stone pillars of the east wing, showering the gravel path with pulverized marble and glass.
Standing behind the vehicle, holding an umbrella in the howling snow, was Don Bernardo Rossi. He looked insane—his silver hair wild, his coat splattered with mud, screaming at his remaining driver to keep firing.
"Tear it down!" Bernardo roared over the roar of the gun. "Tear the whole damn house down! Burn them all!"
Lorenzo stepped out from behind the ruined hydrangeas.
The snow was falling so thick it caught the yellow muzzle flashes of the heavy machine gun, illuminating the garden in ghostly, stroboscopic bursts of light.
Lorenzo raised the shotgun.
BOOM.
The first slug struck the machine gun’s tripod, shearing the mounting bolt in half and sending the heavy barrel spinning off the back of the truck into the snowbank.
The gunner screamed, reaching for his sidearm, but Lorenzo racked the slide and fired again.
BOOM.
The slug hit the armored glass of the driver's side window, spider-webbing the heavy material and driving the truck back six inches into the mud.
Bernardo turned, shrieking in horror as he saw Lorenzo advancing through the storm—a tall, terrifying silhouette clad in black, stepping through the white snow like the angel of death.
"Lorenzo!" Bernardo screamed, pulling a small silver revolver from his pocket with shaking hands. "Stay back! I’ll kill you! I swear to God I’ll kill you!"
Lorenzo didn't run. He didn't take cover. He walked through his garden, his heavy boots crushing the wet leaves beneath the fresh snow, his eyes locked onto the old man’s terrified face.
"You came into my home, Bernardo," Lorenzo said, his voice carrying over the howl of the wind. "You brought blood to my daughter's window."
"She’s not your daughter!" Bernardo shrieked, firing three wild shots into the storm.
The bullets whizzed past Lorenzo’s ears, one grazing his left cheek, leaving a thin red line of blood across his cheekbone. Lorenzo didn't even flinch.
He reached Bernardo, grabbed the silver revolver from the old man’s hands, crushed the cylinder with his gloved fist, and tossed the useless piece of metal into the snow.
Then he grabbed Bernardo by his lapels, dragging the ancient, trembling Don until his knees hit the cold, wet gravel right where Clara had sat crying two days ago.
Pino emerged from the dark bushes, his fur covered in snow and red stains, taking up a position beside Lorenzo’s knee, his dark eyes fixed on Bernardo’s throat.
Bernardo looked up, weeping, shivering violently in the freezing cold. "Please... Lorenzo... we were partners... your father and I... we built this city..."
"My father built a city of blood," Lorenzo said quietly, pulling his Sig Sauer from his belt and pointing it directly between Bernardo’s weeping eyes. "And I am building a home."
BANG.
The gunshot echoed across the silent, snow-covered garden, swallowed instantly by the roaring winter wind.
Bernardo Rossi fell backward into the snowbank beside the hydrangeas, his ancient, greedy life finally extinguished.
Lorenzo stood motionless in the falling snow for a long moment, looking down at the red stain spreading across the white powder. He lowered his weapon, engaged the safety, and slid it back into his holster.
He turned his face up toward the dark sky, feeling the cold snowflakes melting against his warm, bleeding cheek.
The war was over. The estate was silent.
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Marco walked out from the ruined patio doors, his shotgun resting on his shoulder, looking at the dead Don in the snow.
"Clean the garden, Marco," Lorenzo said softly. "And get the generator running. I promised someone hot chocolate."
