Chapter 4 - The Siege of the River Estate
For three days, the Vale estate was under total lockdown.
Heavy steel shutters dropped over the high glass windows. Armed guards posted at every corner of the grounds. The air inside the house was thick with the ozone smell of security systems running at full capacity and the tense silence of waiting.
Lincoln was gone.
Aurora spent forty-eight hours straight in the interior wing of the house with Leo. They played games, painted murals on temporary cardboard walls, and practiced sign language until Leo could form full, complex sentences. He was learning at a light-speed pace, his confidence soaring now that he knew his father was actively speaking his language.
Where is Father? Leo signed one evening as they sat on the heavy rug, a small bowl of soup growing cold between them.
Aurora looked at the small boy. She didn't want to lie to him, but she couldn't tell him his father was out in the city hunting men with guns.
Father is working, Aurora signed, offering him a warm, reassuring smile. He is making the city safe so we can go see the boats again.
Leo nodded slowly. He reached out and touched Aurora’s wrist, his tiny fingers pressing against her pulse.
You stay? he signed.
I stay, she promised.
At 2:00 AM on the fourth night, the lights inside the fortress flickered and died.
Aurora sat up instantly on the plush sofa in the secondary living room. The heavy red emergency lights above the doors began to blink in silent, terrifying rhythm.
Rule number four, Marko’s voice echoed in her head. If you see a red light blinking, you stay where you are.
A sudden, dull thud echoed through the floorboards—the sound of an explosion near the outer perimeter gates. High-caliber gunfire followed, muffled by the thick concrete walls, but unmistakable.
Leo woke up, his eyes wide with fear as he felt the heavy vibrations shaking the floor. He didn't hear the shots, but he felt the violence in the air. He scrambled into Aurora’s lap, hiding his face against her chest.
Aurora held him tight, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The heavy mahogany door swung open.
Aurora gasped, pulling Leo behind her.
A man stepped into the red-lit doorway. He wasn't one of Lincoln’s men. He was short, wiry, with a thin mustache and blood splattered across his leather jacket. Dante Moretti.
"Well, well," Dante sneered, pulling a silenced pistol from his coat. "So this is the little teacher Lincoln's been hiding. And the deaf mute brat."
Aurora stood up, holding Leo behind her back, her posture rigid, her eyes blazing with a desperate, feral bravery.
"Touch him and you die," Aurora spat.
Dante laughed, a dry, grating sound. "With what, sweetheart? Lincoln's dead down at the docks. My boys boxed him in twenty minutes ago. His whole crew is fish food by now."
Aurora’s stomach plummeted into an abyss. No. Lincoln can't be dead. He promised.
"Now," Dante said, stepping into the room, raising his gun toward Aurora’s head. "You're coming with me. We're gonna take a few pictures of the boy before we throw him off the bridge to make sure Lincoln's remaining lieutenants surrender the riverfront."
He reached out a gloved hand to grab her hair.
Aurora didn't hesitate. She grabbed a heavy brass floor lamp beside the sofa and swung it with all the strength in her small body.
The heavy base connected with the side of Dante’s head with a sickening crack.
Dante roared in pain, stumbling back, dropping his gun. He reached up, wiping blood from his cheek, his eyes turning murderous. "You bitch—"
He lunged at her.
Before he could lay a finger on Aurora, a huge, dark shadow stepped out of the hallway behind him.
A thick, scarred hand reached out, grabbed Dante by the throat, and slammed him face-first into the concrete doorframe with the force of an artillery shell.
Dante slumped to the floor, unconscious, his nose shattered, blood pooling on the polished floorboards.
Lincoln Vale stood in the red emergency light.
His suit coat was gone. His white shirt was torn at the shoulder, soaked in rain, sweat, and dark blood. He was holding a heavy rifle in his right hand, his posture hunched with deep exhaustion, but his eyes were alive with an absolute, terrifying fury.
Behind him, Marko and three other men moved quickly, dragging Dante’s limp body away down the hall.
Lincoln dropped his weapon to the floor with a heavy clang. He took a staggering step forward, his eyes locked onto Aurora and Leo.
Leo broke away from Aurora’s back. He didn't hesitate. He ran across the room and threw himself into his father's arms.
Lincoln dropped to his knees, catching his son, wincing as the boy's weight pressed against his wounded shoulder. He pulled Leo into his chest, burying his face in his hair, breathing him in like oxygen after drowning.
Over the boy's head, Lincoln looked up at Aurora.
She was standing there, shaking violently, tears finally breaking free and running down her pale cheeks.
"You're alive," she sobbed, dropping to her knees on the rug.
Lincoln reached out his free hand—his big, blood-stained hand. He didn't touch her face; he didn't pull her into an embrace. He simply opened his palm, waiting.
Aurora reached out and placed her small, trembling hand in his.
May you like
Lincoln closed his fingers around hers, squeezing tightly.
"I promised," Lincoln whispered, his voice raspy, raw, and entirely broken. "I promised I would come back to the window."
