Chapter 6 - A Bullet Meant for Him
Dawn broke over Lake Michigan in shades of bruised purple and cold steel gray. The penthouse was quiet, save for the hum of the climate control and the distant murmur of Vincent reporting from the secure basement terminal.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass in the living room, holding a mug of black coffee that I had miraculously managed to brew without blowing up the kitchen.
Dante walked into the room, wearing a tailored charcoal-gray suit, strapping a leather holster under his left shoulder with practiced, effortless movements. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes speaking to a night spent coordinating retaliatory strikes against Bianke’s warehouses, but his posture was unbreakable.
""Vincent confirmed the account,"" Dante said, walking up beside me, staring out at the lake. ""Vance’s signature is on the custodial trust. We have the wire transfers, the bank communications, and Whitaker’s full audio confession. By noon, the federal district attorney will have an unsealed indictment.""
""Then it's over?"" I asked, looking up at him, feeling a sudden, unexpected pang of sadness in my chest.
If it was over, my job was done. The audit was complete. I would take my final paycheck, pay off my mother’s medical creditors, find a cheap studio apartment in Logan Square, and never see Dante Costa again. The thought felt colder than the wind howling against the glass.
Dante seemed to read my mind. He turned toward me, his hand reaching out to gently touch my shoulder.
""Amelia—""
Before he could finish the sentence, a terrifying sound tore through the quiet morning.
A high-velocity sniper round shattered the reinforced outer pane of the bulletproof glass with a deafening, metallic shriek. The specialized glass held, spiderwebbing into a massive white circle of fractured laminate, but the secondary round struck the lower frame, blowing the structural seam inward with a violent blast of wind and flying shrapnel.
""Down!"" Dante roared.
He lunged for me, his broad arms wrapping around my torso, his body acting as a human shield as he threw us both toward the reinforced concrete pillar behind the sofa.
Another round ripped through the living room, tearing into the plaster wall where Dante had been standing a second earlier. Plaster dust exploded into the air like white smoke.
I scrambled on my knees, my instincts screaming, but as Dante twisted to draw his Glock from under his jacket, his foot slipped on the slick, fallen glass near the threshold.
He lost his balance, his shoulder slamming hard against the corner of the low marble table, his gun skittering across the floor into the open living room space.
Across the street, on the roof of the adjacent parking structure, a second muzzle flash flickered in the gray dawn.
The sniper was adjusting his angle for a kill shot through the compromised window frame.
""Dante!"" I screamed.
I didn't think about my debt. I didn't think about my job. I grabbed the heavy, cast-iron fireplace poker resting in the brass stand beside the hearth, lunged forward out of the shadows, and swung it wildly at the floor lamp near the window.
The heavy steel lamp toppled sideways, catching the reinforced sheer curtain, ripping the heavy fabric down from its ceiling mount.
The thick, woven linen collapsed in a billowing cascade of gray drapery, completely covering the fractured window, blocking the sniper’s line of sight just as the third bullet tore through the room.
The round struck the iron poker in my hands with a bone-jarring metallic crack.
The force of the impact ripped the poker from my grip, sending me spinning backward onto the floor, my palms stinging with electric numbness.
Silence crashed back over the penthouse.
Dante was on his feet in a fraction of a second. He grabbed his weapon, pulled me into the secure hallway behind the kitchen, and kicked the heavy steel safe-room door shut, locking the four-point hydraulic bolts into place.
In the dim amber light of the panic room, Dante pinned me against the wall, his chest heaving, his hands frantically checking my arms, my face, my neck.
""Amelia! Did it hit you? Answer me!"" his voice was shaking, raw with an unbridled, terrifying panic I had never heard from him before.
""I... I hit his curtain,"" I gasped, holding up my trembling, uninjured hands. ""The poker deflected the bullet. Mr. Costa... I broke your fireplace.""
Dante stopped.
He stared at my dust-covered face, at my wide, hazel eyes, and then, with a choked sound of pure, overwhelmed relief, he buried his face in the crook of my neck, wrapping his arms around me so tightly my feet left the floor.
""You crazy, reckless girl,"" he whispered against my throat, his body trembling with the aftershock of adrenaline. ""You threw a curtain at a military sniper.""
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""It worked, didn't it?"" I breathed, my hands cautiously coming up to rest on his broad shoulders, feeling the rapid, hammering thump of his heart against my chest.
""Yes,"" Dante said, lifting his head, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made the entire world dissolve. ""It worked.""
