"She Wins": His Pregnant Wife Whispered and Disappeared Into the Night, but the Mafia Boss Had No Idea Who Had Really Betrayed Him

"Enough talk," Falcone hissed, raising his pistol toward Elena. "Give me the override passphrase, or I put a bullet in your stomach and take your thumbprint off your corpse."

"You touch her," Dante growled, "and you die in this water."

"With what army, Moretti?" Falcone laughed. "Your men are scouring Route 127. It's just you and a crippled arm."

Elena leaned her weight against the industrial control panel mounted on the pillar beside her. Underneath the chipped yellow paint lay an emergency circuit breaker that controlled the high-voltage overhead lights and the emergency salt-water deluge pumps used for fire suppression in the old cannery.

She caught Dante’s eye. A single, imperceptible nod passed between them—the first real communication they had shared in six months.

Elena slammed her fist down on the red industrial trip-switch.

The entire cannery plunged into pitch-black darkness.

A second later, thousands of gallons of high-pressure seawater erupted from the overhead fire sprinklers, blinding Falcone’s mercenaries and drowning the floor in a churning deluge.

Gunfire ripped through the dark, wild and undisciplined.

Dante moved with lethal efficiency. Using the sound of the cascading water to mask his footsteps, he closed the distance between himself and Falcone’s lead gunman, disarming him in the dark with a vicious throat strike, seizing the fallen assault rifle.

*Bra-a-ap!*

Controlled three-round bursts illuminated the blackness like strobe lights. Two of Falcone’s men collapsed instantly.

Elena dropped to the floor, rolling behind an iron support column, shielding her unborn child with her knees tucked to her chest.

A hand grabbed her ankle.

"You ruined everything!" Bianca shrieked in the darkness, having crawled through the water, a jagged piece of broken glass clutched in her hand, lunging toward Elena’s face. "He was supposed to be mine!"

Elena didn't scream. With the ruthless resolve of a mother protecting her child, she swung her heavy rigging knife in an arc through the dark. The brass pommel struck Bianca squarely across the cheekbone with a sickening crack.

Bianca collapsed into the rushing water, insensate.

Across the room, the final shot echoed.

Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of the salt-water sprinklers and the heavy, ragged breathing of two surviving men.

Elena reached up and flipped the secondary emergency light switch.

A dim amber halogen bulb flickered to life.

Falcone lay pinned beneath the collapsed catwalk stairs, a bullet through his shoulder, his weapon six feet out of reach. Dante stood over him, blood dripping from his shattered left arm, the smoking barrel of the rifle pressed directly against the center of Falcone’s forehead.

"Wait..." Falcone coughed, blood bubbling on his lips. "Dante... professional courtesy... make a deal..."

Dante didn't even blink.

"You threatened my wife," Dante said.