Chapter 6 - The Broken Safe
The explosion shook the Park Avenue penthouse with the force of an earthquake.
I was in the nursery, carefully arranging miniature pink onesies into the cedar drawers, when the sound of shattering glass and heavy automatic gunfire tore through the quiet apartment. The recessed ceiling lights flickered and died, plunging the room into twilight, illuminated only by the frantic sweep of tactical flashlights in the corridor.
The reinforced steel doors of the penthouse shuddered under the impact of a breaching charge.
BOOM!
Plaster rained down from the ceiling. Alarms began blaring, a high-pitched, deafening wail that pierced my skull.
""Mrs. Vitale!"" Leo’s voice roared from the hallway. He kicked open the nursery door, his tactical vest splattered with fresh crimson, an automatic rifle gripped in his hands. ""We're breached! Russian mercenaries! Crane’s faction must have hired the Petrov syndicate! The elevators are compromised—we have to get to the panic room now!""
Pain suddenly seized my lower back—a vicious, white-hot cramp that stole the air from my lungs. I gasped, doubling over, my hands clutching the edge of the crib.
Not now. Oh God, please not now.
The stress, the concussive force of the blast—it had triggered labor. A warm rush of fluid cascaded down my legs, soaking my sneakers. My water had broken.
""Leo,"" I choked out, sweat instantly beading on my forehead. ""The baby... she’s coming.""
Leo cursed violently, his eyes widening in terror. A hardened soldier who had survived three turf wars looked utterly helpless in the face of imminent childbirth. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, hooked his arm under my waist, and supported my dead weight as we stumbled down the smoky corridor.
Bullets chewed through the drywall behind us, sending wood splinters and insulation flying like deadly confetti. Leo turned, raising his weapon with one hand, firing three controlled bursts down the stairs that were answered by guttural screams in Russian.
""Into the study!"" Leo yelled, shoving me through the mahogany double doors.
He slammed his hand against a concealed keypad behind a framed painting. A heavy steel bookshelf swung outward with a mechanical groan, revealing a reinforced panic room lined with Kevlar and communication equipment.
""Get inside! Lock the hatch from the wheel on the interior!"" Leo commanded, shoving a satellite phone into my trembling hands. ""Call the Boss! He’s on his way!""
""Leo, come with me!"" I begged, another vicious contraction ripping through my abdomen, making my vision swim with dark spots. ""You can't hold them alone!""
Leo looked at me, a sad, resolute smile touching the corner of his lips. He was twenty-eight years old. Nico had pulled him off the streets of Hell’s Kitchen when he was just a runaway boy.
""My job is to protect the family, Mrs. Vitale,"" Leo said softly. ""And you and that little girl are the only family that matters.""
He slammed the steel door shut.
The heavy locking bolts hissed into place with pneumatic finality. Through the four-inch bulletproof glass viewport, I watched in horror as Leo turned to face the corridor. The double doors splintered inward, and four heavily armed men in black tactical gear burst into the study.
Leo fired until his magazine clicked empty, dropping two of them before a hail of return fire struck his chest, throwing him back against the steel wall of the vault. He slid down the metal, leaving a smear of red, his eyes finding mine through the glass one last time before slipping into darkness.
Outside the viewport, the leader of the strike team—a massive man with a jagged scar running from his ear to his lip—stepped over Leo’s body. He walked up to the vault door, sneering at me through the glass. He carried a heavy thermal lance and a bag of industrial cutting charges.
He set the timer on the frame, gave me a mocking salute, and stepped back.
Trapped inside the dark steel box, clutching the satellite phone with shaking hands, I collapsed onto the floor as another agonizing contraction tore through my body. The metal door began to glow a cherry-red around the edges.
I dialed the single pre-programmed number.
It picked up on the first ring.
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""Elena!"" Nico’s voice roared over the roar of a roaring engine and screeching tires. ""I’m six blocks away! Hold on! God damn it, hold on!""
""Nico..."" I wept, curling into a ball on the cold floor, feeling the unmistakable pressure of our daughter fighting her way into the world. ""They're burning through the door. And she’s coming. She’s coming right now.""
