Chapter 3 - Blood on the Silk
The storm Arturo predicted did not wait for the weekend.
It arrived on a Thursday evening at half-past ten. Laura had just finished drying her hair after a warm shower, dressed in soft flannel pajamas, when the heavy stillness of the mansion was ripped apart by a deafening crack that rattled the windowpanes.
Gunfire.
It wasn't the distant pop of street crime Laura had occasionally heard growing up in Crown Heights. It was the rapid, rhythmic chatter of automatic rifles, followed immediately by the shattering of heavy glass downstairs and the shrill scream of alarms echoing throughout the estate.
Laura’s breath caught in her throat. She dropped her towel, her instincts screaming at her to dive under the bed. But before she could move, her bedroom door burst open with violent force.
She screamed, scrambling back against the headboard.
Arturo stood in the doorway, an assault rifle slung across his chest and a Glock gripped tightly in his bloodied right hand. His white shirt was torn at the shoulder, soaked through with crimson that was already dripping onto the plush carpet. His dark hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wild with the raw, terrifying fury of a wounded predator.
“Arturo!” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
He didn't speak. He stepped into the room, kicking the heavy oak door shut behind him and throwing the deadbolt with a metallic slam. He grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her toward him with astonishing strength, yet carefully avoiding hurting her.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his chest heaving as he dragged her into his adjoining master suite. “Moretti sent hit squads through the back treeline. They breached the garden terrace.”
“You’re bleeding!” she cried out, seeing the deep laceration along his collarbone where a bullet had grazed flesh and muscle. “You’ve been shot!”
“It’s a scratch,” he snarled, pushing her down into the walk-in wardrobe, behind a reinforced steel rack of suits. “Keep your head down. Do not make a sound, Laura. If the door opens and it isn't me or Levian, use this.”
He thrust the heavy, cold metal of his Glock into her trembling hands.
Laura stared at the weapon in sheer horror. The steel was heavy, smelling of burnt cordite, the grip warm from Arturo’s palm. “I... I don't know how to shoot!”
“Point it at the center of the doorway and pull the trigger until it stops clicking,” he said, his face inches from hers. His large, blood-smeared hand reached up, gently cupping her jaw. His thumb brushed across her cheek, an act of astonishing tenderness amid the chaos. “Look at me, little bird.”
Laura forced her tear-filled eyes to meet his.
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“I won't let them touch you,” he promised, his voice low and vibrating with absolute certainty. “No one hurts you in my house. Ever.”
He leaned down and pressed a hard, possessive kiss to her forehead before pulling away, racking the slide of his rifle, and stepping back out into the darkened bedroom. The heavy steel door clicked shut, locking Laura in the suffocating darkness of the wardrobe with only the smell of his blood and the thunder of gunfire tearing through the hallway outside.
