Chapter 6 - The Siege of the Courtyard
The battle for the Moretti estate had transformed the pristine snow-covered gardens into a war zone. Searchlights mounted on the perimeter walls swept blinding arcs across the falling snow, catching plumes of gunsmoke and shattered glass from the grand conservatory windows.
I stayed close to Gabriel as we moved from the basement stairwell into the grand foyer. Despite the lingering effects of the neurotoxin and his fragile spinal recovery, Gabriel moved with the lethal, predatory grace of a cornered wolf. Every step cost him pain—I could see it in the rigid set of his jaw and the dampness of his brow—but sheer willpower kept him upright.
“Clara, stay behind the marble pillar,” Gabriel instructed, handing me an extra magazine for the pistol without looking back. “Marcus brought at least two tactical squads. This isn't an assassination anymore; it’s a coup attempt.”
“And your cousin Marcus thinks you’re helpless,” I replied, snapping the magazine into place. “Let’s prove him wrong.”
Across the grand foyer, Viktor burst through the double doors leading from the west wing, dragging a wounded tactical guard by his vest collar and tossing him aside like a ragdoll. Viktor’s coat was torn at the shoulder, and a shallow graze bled freely down his left temple, but his grip on his submachine gun remained rock-steady.
“Don Moretti!” Viktor called out, panting slightly. “The front gates are breached. Marcus is sitting in an armored Mercedes outside the perimeter wall with a dozen heavy hitters. He thinks you’re still paralyzed in bed.”
Gabriel’s lips parted in a cold, deadly grin. “Then let’s go invite him inside.”
Instead of retreating, Gabriel strode toward the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the front courtyard. With a sudden surge of strength, he raised his heavy shotgun and blew out the reinforced glass in a thunderous cascade of crystal shards, stepping directly out into the freezing night air and knee-deep snow.
Viktor and I flanked him instantly, taking cover behind the stone balustrades of the veranda.
Outside in the snow-choked courtyard, idling black SUVs flashed their headlights through the whiteout. Standing beside an open armored Mercedes was Marcus Moretti—a sleek, sharp-featured man in an expensive tailored camel-hair coat, holding a satellite phone to his ear.
When Marcus looked up and saw Gabriel Moretti standing tall on the veranda, holding a shotgun in the freezing snow, the satellite phone slipped from his fingers and landed softly in the drift.
“What… how?” Marcus stammered, his voice carrying clearly across the silent, snow-filled courtyard. “Hale said the neurotoxin would keep you paralyzed for weeks!”
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“Hale was a specialist in medicine, Marcus,” Gabriel’s voice boomed across the courtyard, deep, resonant, and entirely devoid of fear. “You should have hired a specialist in execution.”
Marcus’s face twisted from shock into absolute rage. He yanked a pistol from his shoulder holster and screamed to his men, “Kill him! Kill them all!”
