Chapter 3 - BLOOD ON THE SNOW
"The safest place in Chicago just became a killing floor."
"Stay behind me!" Damian commanded, his voice shifting instantly into full tactical command. He pulled a suppressed sleek pistol from a hidden holster under his shoulder.
Dominic burst through the library doors, his face slick with sweat and blood. "Boss! It’s a breach! Falcone’s men hit the north gate with a snowplow! They’ve breached the perimeter!"
"How many?" Damian asked, completely calm despite the chaos.
"At least twenty. Heavily armed. They know she’s here, Damian. Someone leaked that you brought the girl to the estate!"
Damian shot a icy glare at Clara, but there was no time for accusations. Automatic gunfire erupted in the main foyer below, accompanied by the shattering of stained glass and the screams of dying men.
"Dominic, take the east staircase. We clear the hall and push them toward the courtyard," Damian ordered. He grab Clara by the wrist, his grip like iron. "You stay in the panic room behind my study. If anyone opens that door and it isn't me, you shoot them."
He shoved a small, heavy black handgun into her hands. Clara trembled, staring at the cold steel. "I... I don't know how to use this!"
"Pull the slide, point, and pull the trigger," Damian snapped, grabbing her face with his free hand. His thumb pressed against her jawline, forcing her to look him dead in the eye. "Do not die tonight, Clara. I haven't decided what to do with you yet."
He pushed her into his study, opened a hidden doorway behind a bookshelf, and shoved her inside just as heavily armed men in tactical gear burst into the hallway outside.
For thirty agonizing minutes, Clara huddled in the dark panic room, listening to the deafening roar of assault rifles, grenade detonations, and the metallic smell of gunpowder seeping through the ventilation shafts.
When the gunfire finally ceased, silence fell over the mansion like a heavy shroud.
The panic room door slid open with a hiss.
Damian stood in the threshold. His white shirt was drenched in crimson blood—some his, mostly not. His knuckles were bruised, and a deep cut bled freely over his left eyebrow. But he was standing.
He held out a hand to her. Clara didn't hesitate. She scrambled up and took his hand, letting him pull her out of the dark.
"Are you hurt?" she whispered, looking at the blood covering his clothes.
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"It's not mine," Damian replied flatly. He looked at her holding the gun, her hands shaking uncontrollably, yet she hadn't panicked. She had held her ground.
"We have a mole," Damian said, his eyes darkening as he scanned the destruction of his home. "And the Falcones just made the biggest mistake of their lives."
