Chapter 4 - The Manor Under Siege
The emergency backup lights flickered to life, casting an eerie crimson glow over the long hallways of the penthouse. The air filled instantly with the acrid stench of cordite, burning drywall, and sulfur. Shouts and heavy tactical boots echoed down the corridor outside.
""Elena! Take Marco into the panic vault beneath the kitchen,"" Vincent roared, unholstering two customized silver-plated 1911 pistols from under his jacket. He turned to me, grabbing a small, sleek Glock from a hidden drawer in the bedside table and shoving it into my trembling hands. ""Can you shoot?""
""I... I went to a target range once in college!"" I stammered, feeling the cold, deadly weight of the weapon.
""Keep the safety off, keep both hands on the grip, and aim for the chest,"" Vincent ordered grimly. ""If anyone wearing a black balaclava enters this room, you empty the magazine until the slide locks back.""
Before I could breathe, two masked gunmen clad in black tactical gear burst through the shattered doorway, their carbines raised.
Vincent moved with inhuman speed. He ducked beneath the first spray of bullets that chewed the mahogany headboard into kindling, firing twice in rapid succession. The first attacker dropped instantly, dead before he touched the carpet. The second gunman lunged forward, swinging his rifle like a club. Vincent caught the barrel with his bare left arm, twisting it viciously until the mercenary’s shoulder dislocated with a sickening crunch. He followed through with a brutal palm strike to the throat, dropping the man to the floor.
""Move! To the library!"" Vincent yelled, grabbing my arm and pulling me through the secondary access door just as a volley of bullets tore through the drywall where we had been standing.
We sprinted through the darkened library, our shoes crunching on broken glass from the terrace doors. The rain poured in from the destroyed balcony, howling like a pack of wolves sixty stories above the Manhattan pavement.
Suddenly, a shadow lunged from behind a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. A heavy combat boot struck Vincent directly in the chest, sending him sprawling across the hardwood floor, his guns sliding away into the shadows.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out into the crimson emergency lighting, pulling off his balaclava. It was Dominic Moretti. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and burning with psychotic ambition.
""Hello, big brother,"" Dominic sneered, raising a heavy-caliber revolver and leveling it squarely at Vincent's forehead. ""You always were father's favorite. Even when you let our family business go soft with your pathetic rules and codes of honor. Now look at you—bleeding on your own carpet, ready to die for a seven-dollar stray you picked up in a Brooklyn gutter.""
Vincent remained seated against the base of a bronze statue, blood trickling from his temple, but his expression was entirely devoid of fear. ""You always were impatient, Dominic. A real boss knows that greed without patience is just suicide.""
""Save the philosophy for hell,"" Dominic hissed, his finger tightening on the trigger.
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My heart hammered against my cracked ribs. Time slowed to a crawl. Vincent was unarmed. Dominic was completely focused on executing his brother. Nobody was looking at me.
I raised the Glock with both hands, took a deep breath despite the burning agony in my side, and squeezed the trigger.
