Chapter 8 - Breach at the Gates
Chaos erupted with terrifying speed. The sprawling stone mansion, usually an oasis of absolute silence and lemon polish, transformed into a warzone. Gunfire cracked through the lower levels, the heavy thuds of boots echoing up the grand marble staircase.
Dominic was on his feet in a second, his face carved from ice. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk, pulling out a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol and checking the magazine with practiced efficiency.
“They’re coming for the master wing,” Dominic said, his voice deadly calm. “Nora, get into the panic room behind the bookcase. Now.”
“And you?” I demanded, grabbing my medical duffel bag instead of running. “You think I’m going to hide in a hole while you fight an army with one good arm and fresh stitches?”
“This is my war, Nora!” he shouted, grabbing my arm as gunfire drew closer down the hall. “You’re a nurse, not a soldier!”
“I’m the only reason you’re alive to hold that gun!” I shot back, wrenching my arm free. “If you die here, my contract is void, and I don't get paid. We stick together, Rossi. That’s the rule.”
A barrage of bullets chewed through the heavy oak double doors of the study, showering us with splinters and plaster. We both dropped instantly to the floor, crawling behind a heavy marble pillar as glass shards rained down around us.
The door splintered inward, kicked off its hinges by two men in tactical gear bearing the Moretti crest. They stepped into the room, assault rifles raised, scanning the shadows for targets.
Dominic didn't hesitate. Even from a prone position, leaning heavily against my shoulder for stability, he raised his Sig Sauer and fired twice with lethal precision. Both intruders dropped instantly before they could register our position.
“Good shot,” I breathed, pulling a roll of sterile gauze and a scalpel from my bag. “Now help me patch your shoulder before the next wave arrives, because you definitely just tore a stitch.”
Dominic winced as a fresh spike of pain shot through his upper body, staining his dark shirt. He looked at me, a mixture of utter disbelief and burning admiration in his eyes.
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“You are out of your mind, Nora Hayes,” he muttered, raising his weapon toward the shattered doorway as more boots echoed down the hall.
“Takes one to know one,” I retorted, handing him an extra magazine. “Let’s clear the hallway.”
