Chapter 7 - The Last Stand in the Grand Hallway“They’re inside,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a panicked whisper as the distant sound of shattered glass echoed up through the grand staircase.
Dominic didn't panic. His face hardened into a mask of cold, lethal calculation. He slammed the secret mirror shut, locking the hidden alcove, and spun around to grab a heavy tactical shotgun from a hidden wall rack behind the velvet drapes.
“Take Noah,” Dominic ordered, handing Clara a set of heavy brass keys. “There’s a reinforced panic shelter beneath the library floor. Lock yourselves inside and do not open it for anyone—not even if you hear my voice.”
“And you?” Clara asked, watching him rack a shell into the shotgun with a deafening clack.
“I’m going to remind them why they used to check under their beds for my name in Chicago,” Dominic said, his eyes burning with a dark, ruthless fire.
He pushed her toward the adjoining nursery, where Noah was still sleeping soundly under the effects of a mild sedative the estate doctor had administered earlier. Clara scooped the boy up in her arms, wincing as her bruised ribs protested the sudden weight. She carried him out through the service corridor, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Behind her, the sharp, deafening pop of suppressed gunfire echoed through the high-ceilinged hallways of the mansion.
Bang. Bang.
Clara didn't look back. She scrambled down the hidden spiral staircase leading to the library, her cheap sneakers slipping on the metal steps. She reached the bottom, located the floor panel Dominic had described, and shoved the brass key into the lock.
It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.
She hurried inside the small, climate-controlled vault, laying Noah gently on a cot in the corner. The room was equipped with water, medical supplies, and a live monitor array displaying feeds from every camera in the house.
Clara’s breath hitched as she stared at the glowing screens.
On Camera 4, located in the grand second-floor hallway, Dominic stood alone.
He had discarded his suit jacket, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing lean, corded muscle and a long, jagged scar across his forearm. He stood casually in the center of the corridor, the tactical shotgun resting against his hip, blocking the only path to the north wing.
Four armed operatives in black tactical gear rounded the corner, weapons raised.
They didn't waste time with warnings. They opened fire.
Glass from the ornate wall sconces shattered. Wood splinters exploded from the antique doorframes. But Dominic moved with terrifying, unnatural speed, ducking behind a marble pillar before returning fire with brutal, calculated precision.
Boom.
The first operative flew backward, his chest armor caving in from the point-blank slug.
Dominic pivoted, racking another shell, dropping the second man with a shot to the leg. The remaining two mercenaries scattered, diving behind cover, trading frantic gunfire with the billionaire.
Clara watched in absolute horror and awe from the monitor screen below. He wasn't just a businessman protecting his estate. He was a trained apex predator who had built his empire on blood, steel, and absolute dominion over Cicero and Chicago.
Suddenly, on Camera 2—the feed covering the library entrance—a heavy, metallic scraping sound echoed from the floorboards right above Clara’s head.
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She froze.
The safe room wasn't as secret as Dominic thought. Someone was cutting through the ceiling vents.
