Chapter 5 - Blood on the MarbleThe heavy oak doors of the mansion shuddered under the sudden, brutal impact of a battering ram. Splinters of ancient hardwood rained down across the polished marble floor, scattering the sunlight that poured through the crystal chandelier.
"Marcus! Get them upstairs, now!" Damien roared, shoving Rachel toward the grand staircase where her terrified daughters were already being herded by the burly enforcer.
"No! Damien, let me stay!" Rachel screamed, fighting against Marcus’s grip as he hoisted June into his arms while prodding Wren and Ivy up the stairs.
"Move!" Damien didn't look back. He raised his pistol, squaring his stance as the second blow shattered the locks on the front doors. The massive panels burst inward, and a flood of armed men in tactical gear poured into the foyer, their automatic rifles raised.
Shit. Not local enforcers. These were professionals—syndicate hit squads bearing the insignia of the Moretti family, Damien’s oldest and most ruthless rivals.
Bang! Bang!
Glass shattered above as a sniper round blew out one of the high clerestory windows, raining crystal shards across the marble. Damien dropped to one knee, returning fire with chilling precision. The lead tactical officer caught a round square in the chest, tumbling backward into the shattered doorframe.
"Cole!" a voice bellowed from the haze of smoke and dust filling the entryway.
A tall, impeccably dressed man stepped through the smoke, holding a silenced submachine gun loosely in one hand. It was Victor Moretti Jr., the crown prince of the rival syndicate, wearing a smirk that looked entirely too comfortable for a man standing in a war zone.
"Well, well, well," Victor mocked, his eyes scanning the opulent foyer before locking onto Damien. "Seven years we've been hunting for your little girlfriend, Damien. Seven years you spent hiding her away like a dirty little secret. And where do we find her? Right in your own living room."
Damien rose slowly from his crouch, his weapon trained dead center on Victor’s forehead. His breathing was steady, his pulse ice-cold. "You crossed my threshold, Victor. That's a mistake you don't get to walk away from."
"Oh, I'm not walking away," Victor laughed, motioning to the dozen heavily armed operatives fanning out across the room, cutting off every exit. "We brought a moving truck. We're taking the woman—and those three adorable little girls of yours. My father wants to settle an old score, and what better way than wiping out the entire Cole bloodline in one afternoon?"
Rachel, who had broken free from Marcus halfway up the stairs, stood frozen on the landing, her hands clamped over her mouth to stifle a scream. Her worst nightmare had materialized. The past she had tried to bury had dug its way out of the grave and tracked her straight to the front door.
"You touch them, and I'll feed you your own intestines," Damien whispered, his voice trembling with a rage so pure and concentrated it made even Victor’s smile falter.
"Cute speech, Damien," Victor sneered, raising his submachine gun. "Drop the piece."
Damien’s finger tightened on the trigger. He wasn't going to drop it. He was going to turn Victor into hamburger meat before the first guard could blink. But before the first shot could ring out, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the balcony above.
"Drop your pieces, or the kid gets a new smile," a cold, raspy voice echoed down from the shadows of the upper landing.
Everyone froze.
May you like
Victor’s head snapped up. To his horror, one of his own elite hitmen—supposed to be securing the upper perimeter—was standing behind Wren, the middle girl, with the cold barrel of a pistol pressed firmly against her temple.
Rachel let out an absolute shriek of pure agony that echoed off the marble walls. "WREN!"
