Chapter 10 - The Edge of the Storm
Frank stood in the doorway, his tactical vest strapped tight, his face gray with tension.
"Mr. Moretti," Frank said, his voice tight and urgent. "We've got a problem at the main gate."
Luca stepped back from me, the warmth of the kiss instantly vanishing behind a mask of cold, lethal authority. He reached down, checked the firearm in his shoulder holster, and turned toward his security chief.
"Speak," Luca commanded.
"Three black Suburbans just breached the outer perimeter," Frank said, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. "They didn't use the intercom. They rammed the iron gates with a snowplow rig. They’re halfway up the private drive right now."
My blood turned to ice. "Victor Romano?"
"No," Frank said, looking between Luca and me with grim dread. "Victor doesn't have the stomach for a frontal assault on this estate. These aren't dockworkers, boss. These are the Corsicans. The ones who run the private security firms out of Montreal."
Luca’s jaw set like stone.
"Victor didn't come to negotiate," Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "He hired contract killers to wipe out the estate before the banks open at nine."
"They'll be at the front terrace in less than two minutes," Frank warned, pulling a tactical radio from his vest. "I've got six men on the roof and four at the rear service entrance, but they're coming in heavy. Automatic weapons. Flashbangs."
"Evacuate the domestic staff through the wine cellar tunnels," Luca commanded without missing a beat. "Take Charles, Mrs. Gable, and the kitchen staff. Move them to the safe house in Bedford."
"And you, sir?" Frank asked.
Luca looked back at me.
His dark eyes were unreadable, filled with an ancient, terrifying resolve. He walked over to the antique gun cabinet beside the fireplace, punched a six-digit code into a concealed electronic keypad behind a leather-bound edition of Dante's *Inferno*, and the heavy glass door swung open with a soft hiss.
Inside rested an array of tactical weapons that looked entirely out of place in the century-old library.
Luca pulled out a sleek, matte-black semi-automatic rifle, checked the bolt, and racked a round into the chamber with a loud, metallic *clack*.
Then he reached inside again and pulled out a compact, lightweight 9mm pistol.
He walked back to where I was standing, took my right hand—the one with the healing stitches—and placed the cold, heavy steel of the pistol into my palm. He closed my fingers around the grip, his thumb resting over mine.
"Do you know how to shoot?" he asked quietly.
I stared down at the black weapon in my hand, my heart racing, the weight of the gun feeling terrifying and foreign.
"My father took me hunting when I was twelve," I whispered, looking up into his eyes. "A shotgun. Not this."
"The mechanics are the same," Luca said, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, steady cadence that banished the rising panic in my chest. "Point. Squeeze. Do not hesitate. If a door opens and it isn't me or Frank, you empty the magazine."
"Luca, you have to run," I begged, clutching his forearm. "Take the tunnel with the staff! There are too many of them!"
Luca reached up and cupped the back of my neck, pulling my face close to his.
"I have run this city for ten years, Emma," he murmured, his breath hot against my cheek. "Morettis do not run from their own homes. If Victor Romano wants to take what is mine, he will have to pry it from my cold, dead hands."
Outside, through the heavy rain, the deep roar of modified V8 engines echoed up the long driveway, followed by the violent crunch of gravel as the first vehicle skidded to a halt on the grand front terrace.
A megaphone crackled to life, distorted by the downpour.
*"Luca Moretti! You have sixty seconds to come out with your hands up! Send the girl out first, and we might leave you with enough breath to sign over the deeds!"*
Isabella’s voice cut through the background of the speaker—shrill, manic, and triumphant.
*"I told you I'd take everything from you, Luca! Bring that filthy little maid to the steps, or we burn the whole house down with you inside!"*
I looked at Luca.
His face was completely devoid of fear. A slow, chilling smile spread across his lips—the smile of a predator that had finally lured its prey into the exact trap it had set months ago.
"Frank," Luca said into his tactical earpiece.
*"Ready on your mark, boss,"* the radio crackled back.
Luca looked down at me one last time.
He reached out, his thumb tracing the jawline where he had kissed me moments before.
"Stay behind the desk until the shooting stops," he whispered.
"And if it doesn't stop?" I asked, my voice trembling, my fingers tightening around the cold grip of the pistol.
Luca leaned down and pressed a hard, fierce kiss to my forehead.
"Then I will see you on the other side," he said.
He turned toward the grand double doors of the library, the black rifle resting easily against his shoulder, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.
The grandfather clock in the gallery chimed the half-hour.
Outside, the heavy oak front doors of the mansion were breached with a deafening, concussive *BOOM* that shattered the stained glass above the entry hall and sent a shockwave vibrating through the floorboards beneath our feet.
Shouts in French echoed down the marble corridor. Heavy tactical boots advanced across the foyer.
Luca kicked the library doors wide open and stepped into the grand gallery, raising his rifle into the smoke.
May you like
I raised the heavy pistol with both hands, my finger slipping onto the trigger, my eyes fixed on the open doorway.
And as the first volley of automatic gunfire shattered the morning silence, the storm finally broke.
