Chapter 8 - The Siege of Moretti Manor
The retaliatory strike arrived twenty-four hours later, under the cover of a ferocious winter blizzard that blanketed Chicago in a foot of blinding snow. Sal DeLuca, knowing that the federal authorities were closing in and that the encrypted drive would seal his execution, assembled every mercenary and corrupt rogue enforcer he had left. They didn't care about stealth anymore; this was a scorched-earth suicide mission to exterminate Vincent, me, and the evidence in one bloody massacre.
The estate’s outer security perimeter was breached at 2:00 AM. Explosions echoed from the front gate as DeLuca’s reinforced trucks smashed through the wrought-iron barricades. High-caliber gunfire rattled against the reinforced bulletproof glass of the manor’s lower windows, the concussive thuds shaking the chandeliers.
Teresa rushed into the master suite, her face pale but determined, carrying an emergency survival bag. "Emily, we have to move to the underground bunker beneath the wine cellar! Now!"
I scooped Ellie from her crib, holding her so tightly she let out a frightened cry. I pulled a thick woolen blanket around her, shielding her ears from the terrifying sounds of war tearing through the grounds. Outside in the hallway, Marco and a dozen armed guards were moving with military precision, returning fire down the stairwells to hold off the advancing waves of DeLuca’s strike team.
As we reached the downstairs hall leading toward the wine cellar, I saw Vincent. Despite his fractured ribs and stitched shoulder, he was wearing tactical armor, holding a heavy assault rifle, barking tactical commands to his men. He looked like an ancient warrior defending his fortress, unyielding and terrifying.
"Vincent!" I screamed over the roar of shattered windows and alarms.
He spun around, his stern expression fracturing into sheer panic the moment he saw me and Ellie in the open hallway. "What are you doing here?! Marco, get them into the vault!"
Before Marco could reach us, the heavy wooden doors of the east wing splintered inward. Three masked gunmen burst into the corridor, their weapons raised. One of them spotted me holding Ellie and leveled his barrel straight toward my head. "The girl has the kid! Drop them!"
Time dilated into agonizing slowness. I threw my back toward the shooter, hunching over Ellie with my entire body, ready to take the bullets into my spine.
A thunderous roar echoed through the hall. Vincent had charged across the marble floor, completely disregarding his wounded shoulder, slamming his entire body weight into the lead gunman, knocking the rifle toward the ceiling just as a spray of automatic fire shredded the plaster above us. With a savage, fluid strike, Vincent brought the butt of his weapon down, dropping the attacker instantly. Marco and his team eliminated the other two intruders in a matter of seconds.
Vincent staggered against the wall, clutching his torn side as fresh blood seeped through his tactical vest. But he didn't check his own wounds. He reached out with a trembling hand, brushing Ellie’s cheek, then mine. "Are you hit? Emily, look at me! Are you hurt?!"
"We're okay! We're not hit!" I cried, tears streaming down my face.
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Suddenly, a slow, mocking clapping sound resonated from the smoke-filled east entrance. Stepping over the debris was Sal DeLuca himself. He was an older man with slicked-back silver hair, wearing a fur-lined overcoat, holding a gold-plated revolver, flanked by four heavily armored bodyguards.
"Touching, Vincent," DeLuca sneered, his gravelly voice dripping with venom. "The great Moretti boss, dying to play daddy to a dead roofer's brat. Clara was weak, Mia was weak, and you've turned soft. Give me the hard drive, and maybe I'll let you bleed out with some dignity. Refuse, and I will put a bullet through that baby's head right in front of you."
