Chapter 7 - Bloodlines
The fire fight raged through the crumbling halls of St. Jude’s like a summer thunderstorm.
Roman backed down the narrow stone service corridor, providing suppressive fire while Isabella carried Emma toward the heavy iron trapdoor that led down to the sea caves beneath the cliff.
The remaining mercenary assault squad was disciplined, aggressive, and clearly funded by a high-level syndicate budget. They were pressing forward without regard for their losses, determined to wipe out everyone inside the room.
Roman ducked behind a heavy granite archway as a hail of bullets chipped stone fragments into his face.
He pulled a fragmentation grenade from the fallen mercenary's rig, pulled the pin, and cooked it for two seconds before tossing it back down the main hallway.
BOOM!
The shockwave shook the old Victorian building to its foundation, collapsing a portion of the plaster ceiling on top of the advancing assault team.
In the sudden lull, Roman sprinted back to the trapdoor where Isabella was holding Emma.
"The tunnel is clear," Isabella said, her face covered in gray dust, her eyes fierce. "It opens onto the northern cove. I have a boat hidden in the sea cave."
"Get her into the boat," Roman commanded, crouching down to look little Emma in the eyes.
The child was crying softly, her tiny hands clutching her worn stuffed rabbit against her face.
"Emma," Roman said, his voice dropping into a soft, steady tone that surprised even himself. "Look at me."
Emma looked up through her tears.
"You're a Bellandi," Roman told her softly, reaching out to gently touch her cheek. "Nobody hurts a Bellandi. You go with your grandmother. I'll meet you at the cove."
Emma nodded bravely, swallowing her tears, and wrapped her arms around Isabella's neck.
Isabella looked at Roman, her dark eyes filled with a complex mix of maternal pride and ancient grief.
"Your father was a monster, Roman," Isabella whispered. "But you... you are something different. Don't let your mother's family destroy what's left of your soul."
"Go!" Roman ordered, closing the heavy iron trapdoor behind them and securing the latch with a heavy steel rod.
He turned back toward the main hallway, his rifle raised, his jaw set like iron.
The smoke was clearing, revealing a tall man in a bespoke gray suit stepping over the bodies of the fallen mercenaries. He was flanked by four fresh enforcers carrying heavy automatic weapons.
Roman recognized the man instantly.
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It was Antonio Moretti—his mother's younger brother. His uncle.
"Hello, Roman," Antonio said smoothly, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the plaster dust from his lapels. "You always were too smart for your own good. Just like your father."
