Chapter 13 - THE SIEGE OF GREENWICHThe sound of shattering glass reverberated through the grand foyer, instantly shattering the fragile veneer of negotiation.
Roman reacted with instinct honed over decades of underworld survival. He shoved Elena backward toward the reinforced staircase wall, bringing his MP5 up to chest level as figures clad in black tactical gear swarmed through the shattered French doors from the East Wing. They weren't syndicate enforcers; they were professional corporate mercenaries—clean, efficient, and wearing night-vision tactical helmets.
Traitorous bastards! Roman roared, opening fire into the perimeter of the foyer.
The deafening crack of suppressed automatic gunfire filled the marble-floored hall. Chunks of white plaster exploded from the walls, and a heavy crystal vase shattered into a thousand glittering shards as bullets tore through the entryway. Two of Julian’s mercenaries crumpled instantly, their bodies hitting the marble with heavy, lifeless thuds.
Julian didn't flinch. Amidst the chaos of flying lead and screaming alarms, the old patriarch turned sharply toward the shadows of the library corridor, seeking an escape route.
You’re not going anywhere, Julian! Elena yelled over the gunfire.
She didn't wait for Roman. Moving with cold, calculated precision, she drew the compact Beretta from her waistband, stepped past her husband into the line of fire, and squeezed the trigger twice. The first bullet took out the wall-mounted security console, plunging the foyer into sudden, strobing emergency red light; the second caught Julian’s remaining bodyguard in the shoulder, spinning him hard against the mahogany bookcase.
Julian lunged for the side service corridor, but Marco—who had been monitoring the perimeter feeds from the sub-basement bunker—burst through the kitchen swinging doors with an assault rifle raised, cutting off the patriarch's path of retreat.
Hands where I can see them, old man! Marco barked, shoving the barrel of his rifle square into Julian’s chest.
Julian froze, his aristocratic composure finally cracking. He looked down at the steel barrel, then across the room at Elena, who stood amidst the smoke and shattered glass with her weapon steady and her breathing completely controlled.
You're a cold bitch, Elena, Julian spat, blood trickling from a minor shrapnel scratch on his cheek. You inherited everything from your father, and you're going to burn it all down just to play empress.
I’m not playing, Elena said, walking slowly toward him until the muzzle of her Beretta rested lightly against his collarbone. I’m finishing what you started twenty years ago.
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Roman stepped up beside her, his weapon still smoking slightly in the red emergency light. He looked at Julian, then at the mercenaries pinned down by Marco and the estate guards who had finally broken through from the auxiliary buildings.
The siege was over almost as quickly as it began. But the message was unmistakable: the European elders were not going to negotiate peacefully. They were coming for total annihilation.
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