Chapter 7 - The Siege
"Get the kids to the panic room in the basement," Arthur ordered instantly, his voice dropping into the cold, lethal tone of a mafia don who had survived a dozen turf wars. He stood up, unbuttoning his suit jacket to reveal a custom shoulder holster cradling a twin pair of Sig Sauer pistols.
"I'm not hiding," Nora said, standing right beside him.
"Nora, this isn't a debate—"
"I didn't survive Richard Hayes and twenty-six years of syndicate politics to hide in a concrete box while some low-level thugs trash my new kitchen," Nora snapped. She reached behind the heavy velvet drapes near the dining room entrance and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun Arthur had casually left mounted there behind a panel. She checked the chamber with a practiced, fluid snap. "Point me to the back corridor."
Arthur stared at her, sheer shock flickering across his hard features, quickly replaced by a fierce, terrifying grin. "West corridor is yours. Don't shoot my favorite butler."
The front windows shattered in a deafening crescendo of flying glass and gunfire.
Chaos erupted. The Costa estate transformed into a battleground. Arthur moved through the central hall like a ghost of vengeance, his pistols barking in rhythmic succession. But the west corridor—the one leading to the kitchens and the children's quarters—was breached by three heavily armored men looking to take hostages.
They didn't expect Nora.
She stepped out from the shadows of the pantry, leveled the double-barreled shotgun, and fired. The concussive blast blew the first man off his feet, sending him crashing into the tile floor. The second man raised his rifle, but Nora was already pumping the action, her face a mask of cold, porcelain fury.
"You picked the wrong house," she whispered, pulling the second trigger.
By the time the smoke cleared and the sirens began to wail in the distance, Carmine’s men were retreating in absolute terror, leaving three bleeding bodies behind.
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Arthur walked down the hallway, stepping over debris, and found Nora standing by the kitchen island, calmly reloading her shotgun shells as if she were prepping ingredients for a cake.
He stopped a few feet away, a small streak of blood across his cheek, looking at her with a gaze that had completely shifted from utility to absolute reverence.
