Chapter 7 - Ambush in the Winter Garden
The sharp crack of gunfire ripped through the serene quiet of Astor Street, instantly followed by the violent shattering of the front conservatory glass. Shards of crystal rained down upon the flagstones like deadly hail.
In less than a fraction of a second, Roman's gentle warmth vanished, replaced by the terrifying, lightning-fast reflexes of an apex predator. He lunged forward, tackling Khloe around the waist and hauling her to the marble floor, shielding her entire body beneath his broad frame as another burst of automatic fire tore through the rare orchids, pulverizing clay pots and wooden trellises into flying splinters.
"Stay down!" Roman roared, his voice cutting through the deafening noise.
From beneath his tailored jacket, Roman drew a matte-black customized SIG Sauer pistol with terrifying fluid grace. From the main house, the heavy sounds of shouting and tactical combat erupted—Enzo and the perimeter guards were already returning fire, the deep thuds of their suppressed weapons answering the chaos outside.
"Roman!" Khloe gasped, pressing her hands against his chest, her eyes wide with adrenaline but remarkably free of paralyzing panic. The months of corporate warfare and betrayal had stripped away her weakness. "The back terrace! There’s an underground cellar entrance behind the pantry!"
"We don't run, Piccolola," Roman growled, his jaw locked in stone, his eyes burning with a lethal fire. "We eliminate."
Two masked gunmen dressed in tactical winter gear burst through the shattered frame of the conservatory, their assault weapons raised to sweep the room.
Roman didn't hesitate. Rolling onto his side while keeping Khloe pinned behind a reinforced brick planter, he fired three consecutive double-taps. The muzzle flashes illuminated the conservatory in sharp, strobing bursts. Both intruders dropped instantly to the flagstones with brutal finality, their weapons clattering across the wet glass.
"Enzo!" Roman barked into his collar-mounted comms unit. "Report!"
"Perimeter breached at the south gate, Boss!" Enzo’s voice crackled through, accompanied by the background rattle of gunfire. "A convoy of unmarked vans. Not Moretti rivals. These are hired guns—eastern European contractors! We’ve cut down six, but three broke through toward the courtyard!"
"Contain the exterior," Roman commanded with icy detachment. "I have the interior covered."
Roman stood up in a crouch, reaching down with one hand to haul Khloe effortlessly to her feet. He checked her over in a single, frantic second, his eyes searching for blood. "Are you hit?"
"No! I'm fine!" she said, her voice steady despite the smell of gunpowder stinging her nostrils. "Who hired them, Roman? If they aren't your rivals—"
"Patricia," Roman spat the name like venom as he ushered Khloe swiftly through the pantry door and into the reinforced hallway of the main house. "She sold whatever liquid jewelry she had left and reached out to the cut-rate cartels operating out of Gary, Indiana. Desperate, sloppy, and suicidal."
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany door leading from the kitchen was kicked open.
A third gunman lunged through, raising a shotgun directly toward Roman. But Khloe, moving entirely on instinct, grabbed a heavy, two-foot cast-iron frying pan hanging from the kitchen island rack and swung it with all her strength, smashing it directly across the assailant’s helmeted face. The impact produced a sickening metallic ring, throwing the gunman off balance and sending his shot blasting harmlessly into the ceiling plaster.
Before the man could recover, Roman stepped in, swept the shotgun aside, and put a single round through his chest.
The gunman collapsed in a heap at Khloe’s feet.
Roman stood breathing hard, the barrel of his smoking weapon pointed down. He slowly turned his head to look at Khloe, who was still holding the cast-iron pan with white knuckles, her hair falling wild around her shoulders, her chest heaving, eyes flashing with unyielding defiance.
A slow, devastating, utterly smitten grin broke across Roman’s face.
"Remind me never to make you angry in the kitchen," he murmured, his voice thick with admiration.
"Enzo said there were three," Khloe panted, lowering the pan. "Where is the last one?"
As if in answer, a frantic, high-pitched scream echoed from the front driveway, followed by the wet crunch of heavy boots on broken glass.
Enzo appeared at the end of the long hallway, holstering his weapon, dragging a bound, bleeding man by the collar of his tactical jacket like a sack of dirty laundry. Behind Enzo, the night had fallen dead silent once more, save for the sirens wailing in the far distance—sirens that would conveniently turn around before reaching the block, diverted by Roman’s police contacts.
"Last one alive, Boss," Enzo said, dumping the shivering contractor onto the floor. "He’s singing like a canary. He already gave up the safehouse. The meeting was coordinated out of an abandoned warehouse by the Calumet docks."
Roman walked over, placing the polished toe of his oxford directly on the wounded man’s collarbone, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp for air.
"Who paid you?" Roman asked, his voice deathly soft.
"The old lady!" the mercenary choked out, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "The Davenport woman! She said the house was empty except for a widow and a skeleton security crew! She said we’d get five million from an offshore account once the girl was dead!"
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Roman looked over his shoulder at Khloe. His eyes had ceased to belong to a civilized man; they were the eyes of an executioner about to bring down the final curtain.
"Get the car," Roman said to Enzo. "It’s time we put an end to the Davenport lineage once and for all."
