Chapter 8 - The Siege of Moretti Manor
The fake panic worked with terrifying speed. Within six minutes of Lucy’s scream, two heavy black SUVs blew through the iron front gates of the Moretti estate, their tires screaming against the wet gravel of the driveway. The gates had been left intentionally unlatched by Raphael’s men, swaying lazily in the rain like an invitation to a funeral.
Lucy stood concealed behind the shadow of a grand marble pillar on the second-floor balcony overlooking the foyer. Down below, the front doors were kicked wide open, letting in a gust of cold, rain-soaked wind and six heavily armed men clad in dark tactical jackets.
At the center of the group walked Don Falcone.
He was a tall, silver-haired man in his late fifties, wearing an expensive cashmere overcoat draped over his shoulders. He held a silver-tipped walking cane in one hand, his face wearing an expression of smug, arrogant triumph. He stepped into the quiet grand foyer, his eyes scanning the cavernous space.
"Julian!" Falcone called out, his voice echoing off the high frescoed ceilings. "Julian, bring your pathetic ass down here! Let's get this paperwork signed before Raphael’s loyalists figure out their boss is cold!"
Silence answered him. The grand chandelier above cast long, flickering shadows across the white marble floor.
Falcone’s smile faltered slightly. He clicked his tongue, gesturing to two of his tactical guards. "Check the drawing room. You two, head up the grand stairs. Make sure the doctor didn't leave any surprises."
The two guards unholstered their suppressed submachine guns, stepping toward the grand double staircase.
Behind the balcony pillar, Lucy squeezed the cold grip of the .22 revolver in her apron pocket, her breathing shallow and quiet.
"You're looking for Julian?" a voice suddenly echoed from the top of the stairs.
Falcone stopped dead in his tracks, looking up.
Dominic Moretti stepped slowly out of the shadows at the center landing of the grand staircase. He looked magnificent and terrifying—a dark silhouette framed by the arched stained-glass window behind him. His black suit coat was draped loosely over his uninjured shoulder, his right hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket.
Falcone gasped, taking a sudden step back, his silver cane clicking sharply against the floor. "Moretti?! You... you're supposed to be dead! Julian said the aconite—"
"Julian is currently bound to a pillar in my cellar, crying like a child," Dominic interrupted, his voice smooth, carrying across the foyer like a death sentence. "And as for your aconite, Don Falcone... you should really buy your poisons from a higher class of chemist. It tasted dreadful in my morning water."
Falcone’s face twisted into an ugly mask of pure rage and panic. "Kill him! KILL HIM NOW!"
The two guards on the stairs raised their weapons—but before their fingers could touch the triggers, the shadow behind the upper balconies erupted into deafening gunfire.
Raphael and four Moretti loyalists leaned over the railings, their heavy assault rifles barking fire into the foyer below. The thunderous roar of the guns was blinding, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness like violent lightning strikes.
The two guards on the stairs were cut down instantly, tumbling backward down the marble steps. Falcone’s remaining men scrambled for cover behind the leather sofas and heavy oak display tables in the foyer, firing wildly up toward the balcony.
"Lucy! Get to the panic room!" Dominic yelled over the deafening roar of automatic gunfire, pulling his Beretta from his holster and firing three precise shots down into the foyer, dropping another of Falcone's men who was attempting to flank the stairs.
Lucy didn't wait to be told twice. She turned and sprinted down the second-floor corridor toward the master suite, bullets tearing through the plaster and oil paintings on the walls around her with terrifying thump-thump-thump sounds. Wood splinters flew through the air like lethal shrapnel.
She reached the heavy oak door of Dominic’s bedroom, threw her body inside, and slammed the door shut, locking the deadbolts.
The bedroom was quiet compared to the war zone in the foyer, but the floor below was vibrating with the continuous rhythm of high-caliber battle. Lucy ran across the room toward the massive mahogany wardrobe, pulling open the side panel to reveal the hidden heavy steel door of the panic room.
She grabbed the handle, ready to pull it open—and stopped.
Behind her, the glass of the balcony window shattered into a million sparkling shards.
Lucy spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.
A man had swung through the broken glass from the roof above—one of Falcone’s tactical guards, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead, his face wild and desperate. He carried a heavy combat knife in his tactical glove, his submachine gun slung across his chest.
He saw Lucy standing near the open wardrobe panel.
"Little maid," the man hissed, wiping blood from his eyes as he advanced across the Persian rug toward her. "You're coming with me. Falcone needs a hostage to get out of this house alive."
Lucy backed up against the steel door of the panic room. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. The guard was fast, broad-shouldered, and lethal.
"Don't move," Lucy whispered, pulling the small .22 revolver from her apron pocket, pointing it at his chest with both hands.
The guard stopped for a fraction of a second, looking at the tiny weapon in her trembling hands, and let out a cruel, mocking laugh. "That tiny thing? You don't even know how to pull the hammer back, girl."
He lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab her throat.
Lucy didn't hesitate. She didn't scream.
She remembered Raphael’s words: Point it at the chest. Pull the trigger until it stops clicking.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The sharp, ear-splitting cracks of the little revolver shattered the room. Three shots struck the guard directly in the center of his chest tactical vest.
The vest stopped the small bullets from penetrating his heart, but the kinetic impact hit him like a heavy sledgehammer, knocking the breath completely out of his lungs. He stumbled backward, gasping for air, dropping his knife onto the rug.
Before he could regain his balance, the heavy oak door of the bedroom was kicked open with splintering force.
Dominic Moretti stepped into the room.
His face was streaked with gunpowder residue, his Beretta raised. He saw the guard stumbling back from Lucy, saw the smoking tiny revolver in her hand, and without a single word, Dominic raised his weapon and fired one shot.
The guard collapsed onto the Persian rug, dead before he hit the floor.
Dominic didn't even look at the fallen man. His dark eyes rushed across the room, locking onto Lucy, checking her from head to toe for blood or injury.
"Lucy!" Dominic was at her side in two long strides, his bare hand grabbing her shoulder, pulling her close against his chest. "Are you hit? Did he touch you?"
"I... I shot him," Lucy whispered, looking down at the smoking .22 in her hands, her whole body shaking violently from the adrenaline crash. "Raphael said... point at the chest... I shot him..."
Dominic reached down, gently taking the revolver from her trembling fingers and tossing it onto the bed. Then, with a gentleness that seemed entirely impossible for a man who had just cleared a battleground, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her small frame completely into his chest, burying his face in her hair.
"You were incredible," Dominic whispered, his voice thick with an emotion she had never heard from him before. "You held the line, Lucy. You saved us again."
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Lucy buried her face in his lapel, smelling the sharp stench of gunpowder and dark coffee, feeling the fast, violent thud of his heart against her cheek. Downbelow, the gunfire was dying down into single, scattered execution shots, followed by Raphael’s booming voice securing the foyer.
The siege of Moretti Manor was over. But as Lucy clung to the most dangerous man in the city, she realized that whatever had been built between them in the dark hours of this night could never be undone.
