Chapter 7 - The Poisoned Pen
The roar of automatic gunfire inside the enclosed penthouse was deafening. Glass shattered in cascading waves; plaster rained down from the ceiling like heavy snow.
""Stay down!"" Victor roared over the chaos, drawing a sleek black pistol from his shoulder holster.
Matthew pressed himself against Hannah’s chest, burying his face in her sweater, shaking uncontrollably. Hannah wrapped her arms around the boy, curling her body over him like a shield, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
""I'm scared!"" Matthew sobbed into her neck.
""I've got you, Matty,"" Hannah whispered fiercely into his hair, though her own hands were trembling. ""I'm right here. Look at me, don't look at them.""
Victor leaned around the corner of the granite island, firing three precise, calculated shots. A gunman in the hallway screamed and collapsed to the floor. Marcus returned fire from the dining room, pinning the remaining two intruders in the corridor.
""Anthony sent his personal enforcers,"" Victor growled, slamming a fresh magazine into his weapon with a sharp metallic click. ""They aren't here to negotiate. They know if those manifests reach the judge, they’re finished.""
""Victor, the terrace door!"" Hannah yelled, pointing toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall on the eastern side.
Through the rain-streaked glass, the silhouette of a fourth man appeared, wielding a heavy sledgehammer to shatter the tempered glass. The lock gave way with a thunderous crack, and the intruder stepped onto the hardwood floor, raising a shotgun directly toward the kitchen.
There was no time for Victor to swing his weapon around.
Hannah didn't think. Instinct took over. She grabbed a heavy, cast-iron skillet from the lower prep shelf and hurled it with every ounce of strength in her body. The iron struck the intruder square in the face, knocking him off balance just as his shotgun discharged harmlessly into the ceiling plaster.
Victor fired two shots, dropping the man instantly.
Within seconds, the sound of heavy boots echoed from the service stairs as eight more of Victor’s private security team flooded the room, securing the perimeter and neutralizing the remaining threats.
The apartment fell into a chilling, smoke-filled silence, broken only by the sound of rain lashing against the shattered terrace windows.
Victor lowered his gun. His eyes were wild, his breathing heavy. He looked down at the kitchen floor, where Hannah was still huddled over Matthew, her back covered in drywall dust, her arms locked tight around his son.
Matthew looked up. He was crying, but he wasn't screaming. He held onto Hannah’s sweater with two fistfuls of fabric.
""Dad?"" Matthew whispered.
Victor dropped his weapon onto the counter and dropped to his knees in the broken glass. He didn't check the perimeter. He didn't give orders to his men. He simply reached out and pulled both Matthew and Hannah into his arms, burying his face in his son’s dark hair.
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""I'm here,"" Victor choked out, his voice cracking with emotion for the first time in his life. ""I've got you. You're safe.""
Hannah leaned against Victor’s broad chest, feeling the violent tremor in his hands. The ruthless king of New York was holding on to them like a man drowning in a storm, terrified of losing the only things that anchored him to the world.
