Chapter 8 - The Blood on the Floor
For forty-five agonizing minutes, Nora sat on the concrete floor of the reinforced vault, listening to the muffled, terrifying sounds of war echoing through the stone walls.
Explosions. Automatic gunfire. The sound of shouting men and shattering stone.
Viktor stood near the locked vault door, his shotgun trained on the entrance, his face a mask of cold, professional stoicism.
Nora gripped the small black pistol in her lap, her mind spinning with terrifying images of Silas bleeding out on the marble floor of his grand foyer, surrounded by enemies.
I can't just sit here, she thought, her nurse’s instincts battling with her fear. He’s still recovering from a major gunshot wound. If his stitches tear... he’ll bleed to death before Viktor opens this door.
Nora stood up, walking toward Viktor. “Open the door.”
Viktor didn't look at her. “No, Miss Caldwell. Mr. Mercer’s orders were clear.”
“I’m his medical provider, Viktor!” Nora shouted, her voice echoing in the small concrete room. “He got shot three days ago! If he’s fighting twenty men, his internal sutures are torn! He needs medical attention right now!”
Viktor hesitated, his jaw clenching. He looked at Nora—seeing the absolute, fierce determination in her dark eyes—and realized she was just as stubborn as Silas.
Before Viktor could answer, the heavy gunfire outside suddenly stopped.
An eerie, suffocating silence settled over the estate.
Nora held her breath, stepping closer to the vault door.
Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.
Click.
The heavy hydraulic locks on the vault door disengaged with a metallic groan. The thick steel door slowly swung outward into the stone corridor.
Nora didn't wait. She pushed past Viktor, sprinting down the hidden corridor into the main study.
The room was destroyed. Bookshelves were shredded by bullet holes, velvet drapes were on fire, and smoke hung thick in the air.
Nora ran out onto the second-floor gallery overlooking the grand foyer.
She stopped dead in her tracks, gasping for air.
The grand entrance hall looked like a battlefield. Over a dozen of Moretti’s men lay motionless across the ruined marble floor. Glass from the grand chandelier covered the ground like fallen snow.
At the center of the room, standing amidst the destruction, was Silas Mercer.
He was covered in soot, blood, and gunsmoke. His tactical vest was torn, and he was breathing heavily, his rifle held loosely in his right hand.
Lying at his feet was Salvatore Moretti—the man who had terrorized Providence for a decade—groaning, clutching a bullet wound in his leg.
Silas slowly raised his sidearm, pointing it down at Moretti’s head.
“This was for my brother, Salvatore,” Silas said coldly, his voice echoing through the silent, ruined hall.
“Silas!” Nora’s voice echoed down from the gallery.
Silas froze. He lowered his gun slightly, looking up toward the balcony.
Nora stood at the top of the sweeping staircase, her grey sweatshirt stained with dust, her dark eyes filled with a mixture of terror, relief, and profound, unwavering love.
Silas looked up at her, and the cold, terrifying killer mask he wore completely melted away. He lowered his weapon, stepping away from Moretti as Viktor’s remaining men rushed in to secure the surviving enemies.
Silas walked up the grand staircase, step by slow step, until he stood at the top landing right in front of her.
Nora threw her arms around his neck, burying her face against his warm, soot-stained chest, weeping with overwhelming relief.
Silas wrapped his broad arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against his body, lifting her slightly off her feet, resting his cheek against her soft hair.
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“You’re alive,” Nora sobbed out. “You idiot, you’re alive.”
“I told you,” Silas whispered into her hair, his voice rough with emotion. “I had a breakfast appointment with my nurse.”
