Chapter 4 - The Blackout
"Frankie, take the back exit!" Dominic ordered, standing up instantly, his injury seemingly forgotten as he drew a sleek, black automatic pistol from his waistband. "Sal, kill the house lights! Move!"
The brownstone was suddenly plunged into pitch-black darkness as Sal cut the main breaker. The only illumination came from the pale streetlights filtering through the heavy window frames and the sudden, rhythmic flashes of gunfire from the front courtyard.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The heavy oak front door groaned under the impact of a battering ram.
"Mara, up the stairs! Now!" Dominic yelled, his large hand grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward the spiral staircase as bullets began to chew through the front windows, sending shards of glass raining into the foyer.
Mara sprinted beside him, her cheap shoes slipping on the polished wood. They reached the second-floor landing just as the front door gave way below with a deafening crash. Heavy boot-steps flooded the marble floor of the entrance.
"Clear the ground floor! Find the girl!" a harsh, eastern-European voice shouted from below.
Dominic pulled Mara into a narrow linen closet near the master bedroom, his large frame pressing her against the back wall. The space was incredibly tight, smelling of clean lavender sheets and the sharp, metallic scent of his gun oil. He held his weapon raised, his breath slow and controlled against her cheek.
"Stay here. Do not make a sound," he whispered into her ear, his hand coming to rest briefly on her chin, his thumb brushing the tiny scar. "If anyone opens this door... you drop to the floor."
Before she could answer, he stepped back into the dark hallway, closing the closet door until only a thin sliver of light remained.
Mara pressed her hands over her mouth, her pulse exploding in her ears. Through the crack in the door, she watched the ghostly, shadowy landscape of the hallway.
A man in a black tactical vest and a ski mask stepped into view, his automatic rifle leveled as he swept the rooms. He was less than ten feet from her hiding spot.
Bang. Bang.
Two muffled, precise shots echoed through the corridor. The mercenary collapsed instantly, his rifle clattering against the floor. Dominic stepped out from the shadows of the bedroom door, his weapon smoking, his expression a mask of absolute, unyielding stone.
But from the staircase behind him, a second mercenary appeared, his weapon already raised, aiming directly at Dominic’s exposed back.
"Dominic! Behind you!" Mara screamed, throwing the closet door open without thinking.
Dominic spun, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The mercenary fired, the bullet tearing through the drywall right next to Dominic's head. Before the man could adjust his aim, a heavy silver object flew through the darkness, striking the mercenary squarely in the face.
It was the heavy antique bronze candlestick Mara had snatched from the hallway table.
The mercenary stumbled backward, his shot going wild into the ceiling. Dominic capitalized on the distraction, firing a single, final round that sent the man tumbling down the spiral staircase.
Silence descended on the second floor, broken only by the sound of the wind howling through the shattered windows downstairs.
Dominic stood in the center of the hallway, his chest heaving as he looked from the fallen mercenary to Mara, who stood by the closet door, her hands empty, her face pale but her eyes fierce.
"You have a habit of saving my life, Mara," Dominic breathed, a slow, genuine smile finally breaking through his frozen exterior.
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"You have a habit of getting into trouble, Mr. Vale," she replied, her voice trembling but her spirit unbroken.
From downstairs, the sound of sirens began to wail in the distance—Frankie had clearly called in their municipal assets to clear the street. The siege was over, but as Dominic walked over and gathered her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest, Mara knew the city was no longer big enough for both the Vale syndicate and the Detroit mob. One of them had to fall.
