Chapter 3 - The Siege of Westchester
Sirens did not wail; the Moretti estate was designed for silent warfare. Red tactical lights flickered along the baseboards of the hallways, bathing the mansion in a crimson glow.
Luca stood up in a single, fluid motion, drawing a sleek, black steel sidearm from a holster concealed beneath his shoulder.
“Elena, stay in this room,” Luca ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority. “Lock the reinforced steel doors from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me or Marco.”
Elena sprang up, fear seizing her throat as she grabbed his forearm. “Luca, no! They have heavy weapons! Don't go out there!”
Luca stopped, looking down at her hand on his arm, then up into her terrified eyes. He reached up, gently cupping her cheek with his warm palm.
“I spent six years living in a ghost house, Elena,” Luca whispered, his gray eyes burning with fierce, unshakeable devotion. “I am not letting them take my family twice.”
He leaned down and pressed a hard, brief kiss against her lips—a kiss filled with six years of lost passion, fierce protection, and unspoken promises.
Before she could speak, he turned, stepped out into the hallway, and the heavy steel security door slid shut behind him, locking with a deep mechanical click.
Outside in the snow-dusted courtyard, automatic gunfire shattered the quiet Christmas night.
Vanessa Sinclair’s father, Arthur Sinclair, had realized that the moment Luca verified Noah’s identity, the Sinclair family’s multi-billion-dollar merger with the Moretti syndicate would be destroyed overnight. Furthermore, if Luca uncovered Vanessa’s role in Elena’s disappearance six years ago, the Sinclair family would be erased from New York entirely.
They had chosen to launch an desperate, total strike.
Inside the grand marble foyer, Luca moved like a phantom. He moved behind the heavy stone pillars, his weapon discharging with precise, deadly efficiency. Beside him, Marco and ten elite Moretti guards held the line, shutting down every entry point.
“Boss!” Marco shouted over the sound of breaking glass and gunfire. “They brought thirty men! They’re trying to force their way into the east wing to reach the guest suites!”
“They won't make it past the foyer,” Luca said coldly, swapping the magazine of his weapon with practiced speed. “Where is Arthur Sinclair?”
“He’s sitting in an armored SUV outside the main gate!”
Luca’s eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits. “Then we end this now.”
Luca motioned to four of his heavy-assault operatives. They pushed open the grand front oak doors, stepping out onto the snow-covered portico.
The courtyard was a warzone of flashing muzzle light and burning vehicles. But the moment Luca Moretti stepped into the center of the terrace, surrounded by his men, his presence alone seemed to command the chaos.
He fired three rapid rounds into the engine block of the lead advancing vehicle, causing it to burst into a wall of flame that illuminated the entire snowy lawn.
“Sinclair!” Luca’s voice boomed across the courtyard, loud as thunder, cutting through the gunfire. “Step out of the car, or I will burn every property your family owns in this city before sunrise!”
In the armored SUV near the gate, Arthur Sinclair looked at the flaming wreckage of his lead vehicles, then looked at Luca standing on the terrace like an immortal god of war.
The gunfire began to die down as Sinclair’s hired mercenaries realized they were fighting a battle they could never win.
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The heavy door of the armored SUV swung open. Arthur Sinclair stepped out into the snow, his hands raised slightly, his face pale as death.
Beside him, dressed in her ruined red silk evening gown from the gala, stepped Vanessa Sinclair.
