Chapter 5 - Blood on the Marble
The noise inside the estate descended into absolute chaos. Automatic gunfire tore through the ancient oak doors of the foyer downstairs, sounding like endless rolls of thunder. The concussive blast of a flashbang grenade rocked the ceiling, showering plaster dust over our heads as Callum dragged me through the narrow, unlit servant corridors built into the mansion's walls.
""Stay low and match my pace,"" Callum commanded under his breath. He held his weapon raised, scanning every corner and shadow with surgical precision.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct told me to curl into a ball and hide, but the unshakeable certainty in Callum's grip pulled me forward. We rounded a corner near the back conservatory when the reinforced glass atrium above us shattered in a rain of razor-sharp shards.
Two men in black tactical gear dropped onto the tiled floor ten feet ahead of us, their rifles instantly swinging toward my chest.
Callum didn't hesitate. He shoved me violently behind a marble pillar and fired three deafening shots in rapid succession. The lead gunman collapsed instantly. The second managed to spray a burst of bullets that gouged deep furrows into the marble inches from my cheek before Callum’s fourth round silenced him permanently.
The smell of cordite and burned blood hung thick in the air. My ears were screaming, but Callum was already checking his magazine, completely composed. He grabbed my arm, checking me over with frantic eyes. ""Did they hit you? Nadia, talk to me!""
""I'm whole! I'm fine!"" I stammered, coughing through the plaster smoke.
""Good. Don't look at them. Look at me,"" he ordered firmly, forcing my gaze away from the bodies on the conservatory floor. ""We have an armored sedan in the carriage house. We punch through the eastern tree line.""
We broke into a sprint across the manicured gardens, the cold November air biting into my lungs. Gunfire echoed from the main house—Lev and the Ferris loyalists were fighting a desperate, bloody retreat to hold the front entrance. Just as we reached the heavy steel doors of the carriage house, a familiar voice cut through the gunfire from behind the stone garden wall.
""Callum! Don't make this messy, cousin!""
Callum froze, his body going rigid. He pushed me behind a stack of industrial crates inside the garage and stepped out into the doorway, keeping his gun raised.
Walking casually into the courtyard was Marcus—the silver-haired, scarred lieutenant who had sat beside Callum at Canali's just twenty-four hours ago. Flanking him were four heavily armed mercenaries wearing Moretti insignias.
""Marcus,"" Callum said, his voice dropping into a chilling, calm register that was far scarier than screaming. ""You were my father's sworn sword.""
Marcus spat onto the gravel. A bitter, ugly grin twisted the scar on his jaw. ""Your father was weak, Callum. He let sentimentality blind him. Just like you're doing now for Thomas Vance's pathetic daughter. Do you know how much Victor Moretti paid me to give him the override codes to your gate? Enough to buy an entire island in the Caribbean.""
""You intercepted the warning twelve years ago,"" Callum said, connecting the horrifying pieces aloud. ""You killed my father. Not the Morettis.""
""I opened the door for them, yes,"" Marcus sneered, leveling his submachine gun at Callum’s chest. ""And now I'm closing the door on the Ferris bloodline forever. Hand over the girl and the flash drive, and I might put a bullet through your head before Victor gets his hands on you.""
From my hiding spot behind the wooden crates, I saw Callum’s finger tense on his trigger. But he was outgunned five to one. The mercenaries were spreading out, establishing a crossfire that would butcher him in seconds.
My gaze darted around the carriage garage. Leaning against an old workbench right beside me was an industrial tire iron—heavy, rusted, and four feet long. Next to it was an open valve connected to an auxiliary heating gas line.
I didn't think about my safety. I didn't think about being a powerless waitress. I only remembered the sickening crunch of betrayal and the man who had shielded me with his own life.
I gripped the cold steel of the tire iron, hooked it behind the corroded emergency gas release valve, and pulled with every ounce of strength in my body.
The valve snapped open with a violent, hissing scream of high-pressure propane.
Marcus's men whipped their heads toward the garage in confusion. ""What the hell is that—""
Callum reacted with lightning speed. He didn't fire at the men; he fired a single round directly into the gravel at their feet, where the gas cloud was rolling across the stones.
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A blinding fireball erupted with a deafening roar, throwing the mercenaries into the air like ragdolls. The shockwave knocked Callum backward, but he rolled to his feet instantly. In the chaos of smoke and flames, Marcus scrambled to his knees, his weapon lost, scrambling toward the tree line.
Callum emerged through the smoke like a vengeful demon, his gun raised, eyes burning with retribution.
