Chapter 9 - The Siege of the Romano Estate
The betrayal wasn't isolated to Marcus.
Within twenty minutes of Marcus’s execution, the digital alarms across the estate began to wail. On the security monitors in the command center, the infrared cameras lit up like a Christmas tree: three black vans had breached the outer perimeter road, deploying dozens of heavily armed mercenaries belonging to the Moretti syndicate.
They thought we were distracted by the wedding reception. They thought Marcus had successfully disabled the biometric grid.
They were wrong.
"Lockdown," Victor ordered, his voice echoing through the command room with absolute, unyielding authority. All traces of the vulnerable husband had vanished; in his place stood the undisputed warlord of Chicago. "Seal the panic rooms. Move Leo and the domestic staff to the subterranean vault. Frankie, take the east wing. Marcus’s little friends are going to find out what happens when you step onto Romano soil."
I stood beside the main console, my hands resting on the edge of the desk. I wasn't wearing my maid's uniform anymore, and I wasn't wearing my ivory wedding dress. I had slipped into a dark wool turtleneck and tactical trousers from Victor’s private supply.
"I'm staying here," I said as Victor reached for his customized HK416 assault rifle.
Victor stopped, turning to look at me with a sharp frown. "No. You're going to the vault with Leo."
"No, I'm not," I replied, my voice steady, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I didn't survive three bullets in the sunroom to hide in a basement while my home is attacked. I know every blind spot in this estate better than any of your capos. I used to clean them."
Victor stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Then, a slow, fierce pride flickered in the depths of his pale eyes.
He reached out, grabbing a Beretta pistol and a tactical harness, and strapped them securely around my waist with his own hands.
"Stay behind me," he said roughly. "If anyone gets past my rifle, they answer to you."
The battle for the Romano estate was short, brutal, and deafening.
Moretti’s men tried to breach the rear conservatory—the exact same spot where I had taken the bullets weeks ago. But this time, the glass wasn't fragile; it was multi-layered ballistic steel.
When their explosives detonated, they only succeeded in blowing themselves out in the open courtyard.
Victor moved through the crossfire like a wraith, his movements calculated, ruthless, and devastatingly efficient. Beside him, I held my ground near the corridor junction, covering his flank, dropping two mercenaries who tried to flank our position through the service stairwell.
Within forty-five minutes, the gunfire died down to scattered, whimpering moans.
Moretti’s elite strike team had been completely annihilated.
As the smoke cleared, Victor walked out onto the shattered front steps of the mansion, his boots crunching on the glass and gravel. He stood under the cold Chicago moon, his assault rifle lowered, looking out over the burning wreckage of the enemy vehicles at our gates.
I walked up beside him, resting my shoulder against his.
"It's over," I whispered, watching the distant wail of police sirens echoing from the city streets—sirens that belonged to officers on Victor's payroll, coming to clean up the mess.
Victor turned his head, looking down at me. The harsh lines of war melted away from his face, leaving only the man who had chained his heart to stone.
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He reached out, taking my hand—the hand bearing the massive emerald ring—and intertwined his fingers with mine.
"It's not over," Victor corrected softly, a faint, possessive smile touching his lips. "It’s only just begun."
