Chapter 7 - The Siege of Lake Forest
The attack on the Moretti estate was swift, brutal, and entirely futile. Donald Vance had arrived with eight hired guns from the remnants of his Detroit crew—men who were paid enough to ignore the terrifying reputation of the Moretti family name. They had cut the main power lines at the gate and breached the southern wall, moving through the rain-soaked gardens with tactical precision.
But Vincent Moretti didn't build his empire by being unprepared for guests.
The moment Vance’s men stepped onto the central lawn, the automated floodlights erupted into blinding brilliance, exposing them in the open like targets in a shooting gallery. From the upper balconies and the hidden stone parapets, Vincent’s soldiers opened fire with suppressed submachine guns.
The night exploded into a chaotic symphony of muzzle flashes and shattered stone. Two of Vance’s men dropped instantly, their bodies sliding into the manicured rose bushes. The remaining mercenaries scattered, taking cover behind the marble fountains and the stone statues lining the drive.
Inside the grand hallway, Vincent moved like a phantom. He didn't rush into the gunfire; he stayed in the shadows, navigating his home with the easy familiarity of a man who had designed every hidden corner of the structure.
A mercenary kicked through the glass of the conservatory doors, his weapon raised as he scanned the darkened room. He took two steps forward before Vincent stepped out from behind a massive marble pillar, firing two precise shots into the man’s chest. The mercenary collapsed without a sound, his weapon clattering against the tiled floor.
“Vincent!” a loud, ragged voice screamed from the courtyard outside.
Donald Vance stood behind the shattered remains of the front fountain, his clothes soaked with rain, his face distorted by a manic, desperate rage. He held a heavy assault rifle in his hands, firing blindly toward the second-floor windows where he believed Clara was hiding.
“Give her to me, Moretti!” Vance roared, his voice cracking over the sound of gunfire. “Give me the girl and the ledger, and I’ll leave your family alone! If you don't, I’ll burn this whole place to the ground with you inside it!”
Vincent stepped out onto the grand stone portico, entirely exposed to the rain and the gunfire. He didn't take cover. He stood beneath the stone archway, his pistol held loosely at his side, looking down at Donald Vance with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt.
“You’re a small man, Donald,” Vincent’s voice echoed over the courtyard, cutting through the storm with terrifying clarity. “You think a gun makes you a king. You think fear makes you powerful. But you don't know anything about real power.”
Vance spun around, his eyes locking onto Vincent. He raised his rifle, his finger tightening on the trigger in a blind panic.
Before he could fire, a heavy round from Luca’s sniper rifle tore through Vance’s right shoulder from the roofline. The assault rifle flew from his grip as Vance fell to his knees on the wet gravel, screaming in agony as he clutched his shattered joint.
The remaining mercenaries, seeing their boss incapacitated and their crew dismantled, threw their weapons onto the ground, raising their hands in surrender as Vincent’s soldiers surrounded them from the shadows.
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The siege was over in less than four minutes.
Vincent walked down the stone steps, his leather boots crunching against the gravel until he stood directly over Donald Vance, who lay groaning in the mud, his lifeblood pooling in the pristine white stones of the drive.
