Chapter 5 - The East Wing Intruder
Victor’s demeanor shifted from a grieving widower to an apex predator in less than a tenth of a second. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating fury that could freeze blood.
Without a word, he spun around, reaching beneath his left armpit to pull a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol from a concealed leather holster.
“Stay in the hallway,” Victor commanded, his voice dropping into the icy register of a mob boss commanding an execution.
“Not a chance,” Serena snapped, kicking off her cheap flats so she could move silently in her socks. “Those are my kids now—even if I’ve only known them for five hours.”
Victor threw her a dark, sharp look of disbelief, but didn't waste time arguing. He sprinted down the corridor toward the east wing, his long strides eating up the distance. Serena stayed right on his heels, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The east wing housed the boys’ bedrooms, a sprawling suite filled with custom toys, gaming setups, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the private gardens.
As they rounded the corner, the sight that met them made Serena’s breath catch in her throat.
The massive window overlooking the terrace had been shattered inward. Shards of safety glass glittered across the Persian rug like diamonds under the moonlight. Standing in the center of the nursery, holding a terrified, shivering Tommy by the collar of his pajamas, was a bulky man in a tactical balaclava, a silenced pistol pressed firmly against the six-year-old’s temple.
Marco, Nico, and Alessandro were huddled in the corner behind an overturned mahogany toy chest, crying silently, their previous tough-guy facades completely shattered.
“Drop the piece, Rinaldi!” the intruder snarled, his voice distorted and shaking with adrenaline. “Drop it or the kid gets a bullet right between the eyes! The boss wants a message sent tonight!”
Victor froze. The gun in his hand lowered by an inch, but the look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated murder. The aura of absolute terror radiating off the mafia boss was enough to make grown men beg for mercy, but the gunman was desperate, cornered, and twitchy.
“Don’t do it,” Victor growled, a dangerous rumble vibrating deep in his chest. “If you touch a hair on his head, I will personally skin you alive and feed you to the harbor sharks.”
“Back up!” the gunman screamed, pressing the barrel harder against Tommy’s temple. Tommy let out a small, muffled sob.
Serena’s mind raced at a thousand miles per hour. She didn’t have a gun. She didn’t have tactical training. But she had a heavy copper-bottomed saucepan she had grabbed from the kitchen counter on her way down the hall, carried instinctively like a defensive shield.
She dropped into a low crouch, slipping silently along the shadows of the bookshelf lining the east wall.
The gunman was entirely focused on Victor, high on the power of holding a mafia boss hostage through his son.
Ten feet. Five feet.
Serena gripped the handle of the heavy copper pan with both hands, channeling every ounce of fear, desperation, and protective maternal fury she possessed.
“Hey, asshole!” Serena shouted.
The gunman whipped his head around in surprise—just a fraction of a second too late.
Serena swung the copper pan with the force of a professional home run hitter. It connected square with the side of the man’s helmeted head with a deafening, metallic CLANG that echoed through the entire mansion.
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The man’s eyes rolled back into his head. He crumpled like a sack of wet cement, releasing Tommy instantly as he crashed unconscious onto the shattered glass.
The room fell dead silent, save for the heavy panting of the quadruplets and the ringing echo of the copper pan.
