Chapter 12 - When the Lights Die
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The explosion wasn't loud, but its effect was absolute.
Deep in the sub-basement, the EMP charge Leo had planted detonated directly against the building's central transformer.
With a violent pop and a shower of internal sparks, every single light in the Grand Venetian Ballroom died simultaneously.
The soaring crystal chandeliers went black.
The orchestra cut off mid-note with a sickening slide of violin strings.
The entire three-story hall was plunged into a pitch-black abyss so dense you couldn't see your own hand in front of your face.
Screams of panic ripped through the darkness.
"What the hell happened?!" Carmine’s voice shrieked over the dead microphone.
"Security! Get the backup generators online!"
"Hands on your weapons, nobody move!" a capo yelled from below.
The sound of dozens of handguns cocking echoed through the hall like a swarm of cicadas.
Then, from the massive double doors at the main entrance, a low, rhythmic sound began.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Heavy combat boots struck the marble floor in slow, deliberate strides.
The emergency red exit signs suddenly flickered to life, casting an eerie, blood-red glow over the ballroom floor.
Standing in the center aisle, silhouetted against the crimson light, was a towering figure.
He wore a long black wool coat over a tailored charcoal suit.
In his right hand, he carried a heavy steel trench gun.
His eyes, illuminated by the crimson glare, were burning with cold, immortal fury.
A man near Table Four dropped his champagne glass, the crystal shattering against the floor.
"G... Gabriel?!" someone stammered, their voice cracking into a high-pitched whimper of terror.
"A ghost!" a woman screamed, scrambling backward over her chair.
"It's Falcone! He rose from the dead!"
The whispers exploded into full-blown hysteria.
Men who had spent their entire lives dealing in murder and extortion were cowering beneath linen tablecloths, crossing themselves in frantic religious terror.
Carmine stood at the top of the marble staircase, clutching the gold railing so hard the metal groaned.
His face was the color of curdled milk, his eyes bulging as if his skull were about to burst.
"No..." Carmine choked out, his voice a ragged whisper.
"No, I saw the doctor's report! You were dead! Your heart stopped!"
Gabriel stopped at the foot of the sweeping staircase.
He racked the slide of the trench gun with a deafening metallic clack that silenced the entire three hundred people in the room.
"My heart stopped, Carmine," Gabriel's voice echoed through the vast hall, resonant, terrifying, and alive.
"Because you used the poison of a coward."
"You thought three bullets could put down the Falcone name?"
Gabriel took his first step up the marble stairs.
"You forgot one simple rule of this city, Carmine."
"What... what rule?!" Carmine shrieked, fumbling frantically beneath his white tuxedo jacket for his custom revolver.
Gabriel didn't even raise his weapon.
He simply pointed toward the mezzanine balcony where I stood in the crimson light of the exit signs.
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"You forgot," Gabriel said, his voice ringing with absolute, majestic doom,
"That the king always chooses his own executioner."
