Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Viper’s Den
""Breach at the east terrace!"" Dominic’s voice crackled through the security radio on Adrian’s belt. ""They used underwater rebreathers from the sound! It’s Marco Varga!""
The lights in the suite instantly died, plunging the room into pitch darkness. The estate’s emergency backup generator hummed to life seconds later, bathing the hallways in a dull, crimson emergency glow.
Adrian drew a customized black handgun from beneath his suit jacket, his movements calm and economical. ""Stay behind me. The safe room is behind the library.""
""I'm not hiding in a box while your men die for my name,"" Claire snapped. She grabbed the small semi-automatic pistol from the dresser, flicked off the safety, and strapped the holster to her thigh beneath the heavy robe she wore over her clothes. ""Give me a magazine.""
Adrian looked at her for a split second, then slapped a spare magazine into her palm with a grim smirk. ""Santa Rosalia blood. Let's move.""
They stepped into the long gallery. The air was already thick with the acrid scent of cordite and burning drywall. Downstairs, shouts in Italian mingled with the rhythmic, heavy thud of automatic weapons. Sal and three other Bellandi security guards were holding the base of the marble staircase, firing toward the shattered French doors of the ballroom.
A shadow broke from the service alcove to their right—a heavily armored operative wielding an MP5 submachine gun. The intruder raised the muzzle directly toward Adrian’s chest.
Before Adrian could swing his weapon around, Claire raised her pistol with two hands and squeezed the trigger twice.
The double-tap struck the man squarely through the neck above his ballistic vest. He collapsed against the mahogany paneling, his weapon clattering harmlessly against the parquetry floor.
Adrian glanced back at her, his eyebrows raised in genuine astonishment. ""Your father taught you well.""
""Told you,"" Claire whispered, her breath steady despite the adrenaline hammering in her ears. ""Keep moving.""
They fought their way down the west corridor, flanking two more hitmen who had breached the second-floor library. Claire moved with ruthless precision, using the high marble archways for cover, her shots disciplined and lethal. She was no longer the mouse in the apron; the survival instinct that had kept her invisible had transformed into the lethal legacy of a mafia princess.
Down in the foyer, the gunfire began to taper off. Dominic stood over the sprawled form of a broad-shouldered man wearing tactical gear, his arm bleeding from a graze wound.
""It’s Varga,"" Dominic said, spitting onto the marble floor. ""He thought he could catch us sleeping before the gala. He had your Queens driver’s license in his tactical vest, Elena. Bernardo sent him to finish the job.""
Adrian crouched beside the dying hitman, grabbing him by the collar. He spoke in the cold, unyielding dialect of his home village. ""Tell your master that the ghost he created is coming to dinner tonight. And tell him to wear his finest suit.""
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He released the collar and turned to Claire. His charcoal suit was dusted with plaster, but his eyes were blazing with savage resolve.
""Get dressed, Miss Caruso,"" Adrian said, checking his watch under the red emergency lights. ""We have a party to attend in Manhattan.""
