Chapter 4 - The Siege of the Duca Estate
The snowstorm outside roared like a wild beast, driving icy wind through the breached perimeter wall at the edge of the estate grounds.
Inside the house, the silence was shattered by the sharp, rhythmic crack of suppressed gunfire.
Salvatore Baron walked through the shattered glass of the rear conservatory doors, flanked by eight heavily armed mercenaries dressed in black tactical gear. Blood stained the Persian rugs near the entrance where two Duca guards had been taken down in the initial breach.
"Find the girl!" Baron barked, his face lit by the red emergency strips along the baseboards. "Find Grace Carter and get that fucking deed! Burn everything else!"
Upstairs, in the second-floor playroom, four-year-old Emma sat beneath a wooden play table, her hands pressed tightly over her ears. The gray stuffed rabbit was tucked firmly under her arm.
The playroom door was kicked open with a violent crash.
A massive mercenary stepped into the room, his assault rifle raised, scanning the shadows. "Clear!" he shouted back into the hallway.
He stepped further into the room, his heavy boots crunching over plastic building blocks. He stopped in front of the play table, reaching down to lift the dangling cloth skirt.
"Found you, little girl," the man sneered, reaching a gloved hand out to grab Emma by her sweater.
Before his fingers could touch her, a line of steel wire dropped over his throat from behind.
Lorenzo stood on the chair behind the mercenary, his face a mask of absolute, demonic fury. He pulled the garrote wire tight, leveraging his entire body weight backwards. The mercenary let out a strangled gasp, dropping his rifle to the floor as his hands clawed uselessly at the wire cutting into his neck.
Lorenzo didn't make a sound. With a brutal, precise twist of his shoulders, he snapped the man’s windpipe, throwing the heavy body to the side like a sack of wet sand.
Lorenzo dropped to one knee, looking under the table. "Emma."
Emma took her hands off her ears. She saw Lorenzo standing there in the red light, his shirt stained with rain and soot, holding out his big, warm hand.
She didn't cry. She didn't hesitate. She crawled out from under the table and threw her tiny arms around his neck.
"You came," she whispered against his collar.
Lorenzo scooped her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, shielding her body with his own. "I promised I would always come for you."
He picked up the fallen mercenary’s sidearm, checked the magazine, and stepped back into the hallway.
Marco emerged from the stairwell shadow, his arm bleeding from a shallow graze wound, two other Duca enforcers behind him.
"The lower level is secure, Boss!" Marco reported breathlessly. "We cut off their main force in the courtyard. But Baron and four of his lieutenants breached the west corridor—they're heading toward your office!"
Lorenzo’s eyes flared with a terrifying light. "Grace is in my office."
He handed Emma to Marco. "Take her to the safe room behind the wine cellar. Lock the iron door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me."
"Lorenzo, wait!" Marco called out, but Lorenzo was already moving.
He sprinted down the long, carpeted corridor toward the executive wing, his combat boots making no sound against the runner.
Inside the main office, Salvatore Baron had booted open the heavy oak doors.
The room was lit only by the glowing embers of the marble fireplace and the flickering red emergency lights. Baron walked slowly toward the massive desk, his pistol raised.
"Grace!" Baron called out, a sickening smile playing on his lips. "Come out, come out, little maid! Give me the paper your father stole, and maybe I'll let you live to see the morning!"
Behind the desk, Grace crouched low, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she could barely breathe. She held a heavy brass paperweight in her hand, her knuckles white.
She heard Baron’s footsteps approaching the edge of the desk.
"There you are," Baron sneered, stepping around the wood. He raised his gun, pointing it directly at her head. "Hand it over."
Grace stood up, her chin held high, her eyes blazing with defiance. "I don't have it."
Baron cocked the hammer of his gun. "Then you die first, and I'll find it on your corpse."
"Drop the gun, Salvatore."
Baron froze.
Lorenzo stood in the doorway of his private study, twenty feet away. He wasn't holding a pistol. He was holding a double-barreled hunting shotgun—a weapon his father had used on the grounds thirty years ago.
"Lorenzo," Baron gasped, turning his weapon toward him.
BOOM!
The roar of the shotgun deafened the room. The blast caught Baron full in the chest, lifting his heavy body off his feet and throwing him back against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. Books and shattered glass rained down around him as he collapsed onto the Persian rug, dead before his body hit the floor.
Silence descended upon the office, heavy, thick, and absolute.
Lorenzo dropped the empty shotgun to the floor. He walked past Baron’s body without a second glance, stepping around the desk to where Grace stood trembling.
He reached out, taking the heavy brass paperweight gently from her frozen fingers, and set it on the desk.
Then, he pulled her into his arms.
May you like
Grace wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest, shaking uncontrollably as the adrenaline rushed out of her body.
"It's over," Lorenzo whispered into her hair, his arms holding her with a fierce, protective power. "It's over, Grace. You're safe. Both of you are safe."
