The first shots rang out as my hand closed around the gun he’d given me."Always, Marcello," I said.Marcello didn't say another word. He strode toward the door, his long coat sweeping over the broken glass. I followed right behind him. I could feel the tension in his body; he was a bowstring pulled taut, terrifyingly calm.Outside, the night was torn apart by a storm of bullets.The mercenaries’ firepower was brutal. Their heavy weapons shredded the outer stone walls. But it didn't take long for me to realize something was off.Marcello's enforcers weren't fighting back head-on.They were ghosts. They struck from the shadows, from the mercenaries’ undefended flanks and rear, cutting them down with precision. Snipers picked them off from high ground. Close-combat teams slit throats in the darkness of the lawns.I finally understood. The Don was never on the defensive.He’d set a trap. He was waiting for Julian to put all his cards on the table, just so he could wipe them all out in one
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