Chapter 6 - The Siege of the EstateThe sun dipped below the Manhattan skyline, painting the sky in violent shades of crimson and violet.
Inside the east wing suite, the atmosphere was thick with dread. Muffled concussions—the distant, heavy thuds of explosions or gunfire—echoed faintly from across the river, vibrating through the thick limestone walls of the compound.
Leo whimpered, curling up tight in the corner of the plush sofa, his hands covering his ears.
Clara rushed over, dropping to her knees beside him. She pulled the terrified boy into her arms, pressing his head against her chest and humming a soft, rhythmic lullaby. She was terrified—her hands were shaking, and her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird—but she forced herself to remain a steady anchor for the child.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Heavy, frantic pounding echoed at the heavy oak door of the suite.
Clara froze. She clutched Leo tighter, her eyes darting toward the heavy wooden door.
"Open the door! It's Dante! Open up right now!" the head of security's voice roared from the hallway, sounding rough and strained.
Clara hesitated. Rico’s strict order rang clearly in her mind: Do not open the door for anyone except me.
"Miss Vance! We breached the perimeter! Maroni's men made it onto the grounds! We have to move you and the boy to the panic room immediately!" Dante yelled, his voice strained by pain.
Clara slowly stood up, keeping Leo scooped securely in one arm. She crept toward the heavy door, her hand reaching out to turn the brass handle. But something felt wrong. Dante’s voice... it sounded too strained, too desperate. And Dante never called her 'Miss Vance' when he was panicked; he usually called her 'waitress' or worse.
She peered through the small brass peephole.
The hallway was dimly lit by emergency red backup lights. Dante was standing there, leaning heavily against the doorframe, clutching his side where a dark, wet stain of blood was spreading rapidly across his shirt. But standing right behind him—holding a silenced pistol pressed firmly against the back of Dante’s neck—was a stranger with a cold, jagged scar running down his cheek.
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"Open the door, little bird," the scar-faced man whispered into the intercom camera, flashing a cruel, bloody grin. "Or your big bodyguard gets a new hole in his head."
Clara’s blood ran completely cold. It was an ambush. Maroni’s men had breached the inner sanctum.
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