Chapter 7 - THE WRATH OF THE NANNY
The east wing was a labyrinth of shadows, but I knew every creaking floorboard, every hidden corridor, and every blind spot in this house.
Two of Moretti’s mercenaries rounded the corner near the boys' bedrooms, their assault rifles raised, scanning the hallway.
"Sector two is clear," one muttered into his radio.
"Not quite," I stepped out from the shadows of the doorway, holding the heavy submachine gun with both hands, bracing against the kick.
Before they could raise their weapons, I pulled the trigger.
The deafening roar of automatic gunfire shattered the silence. I wasn't aiming to kill—just to neutralize. Bullets chewed into the hardwood floor between their feet and shattered the overhead light fixtures, showering them in a hail of glass and splinters.
Before they could recover from the shock, I lunged forward, slamming the butt of the rifle squarely into the first man’s helmet, sending him crashing backward into the wall where he knocked himself out cold. The second man spun around, but a swift, brutal kick to his knee dropped him to the floor before I brought the heavy weapon down hard across the back of his neck.
Both men hit the carpet, motionless.
I lowered the smoking gun, my chest heaving, adrenaline singing in my ears.
"Whoa," a small voice whispered from the doorway behind me.
I spun around, weapon raised, before lowering it instantly.
Marco, Tommy, Leo, and Dante stood huddled in the doorway of their bedroom, their eyes wide as saucers, staring at the unconscious mercenaries sprawled across the hallway.
"Are you... are you an action movie hero?" Leo whispered, his jaw practically hitting the floor.
"I am a mother protecting her kids," I said, grabbing Marco by the shoulder. "Listen to me very carefully. You are going to take your brothers, go down the secret passage behind the library bookcase, and lock yourselves in the panic room. Do not come out for anyone except me or your father. Do you understand?"
"What about you?" Tommy asked, his eyes filling with tears. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to get your father," I said firmly, giving him a fierce, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "Now go!"
Without looking back, I sprinted down to the subterranean garage, bypassed the security gates, and vaulted into Victor’s custom, bulletproof armored SUV. The keys were still in the ignition—Victor always left them ready for emergencies.
The engine roared to life with a deep, menacing growl. I slammed the shifter into drive, spun the wheel hard, and smashed straight through the mansion's iron security gates, tearing out into the rainy New York night like a bat out of hell.
Downtown Manhattan was a war zone.
According to the security tracker on the dash, Victor’s signal was pinned at an abandoned shipping warehouse down by the Brooklyn piers.
As I raced down the empty expressway, my foot jammed hard against the floorboard, my mind raced with terrifying scenarios. Please be alive, Victor. Please hold on.
When I crested the hill overlooking the piers, the sight below made my blood run cold.
Three black SUVs were riddled with bullet holes, burning fiercely against the dark backdrop of the Hudson River. A dozen armed men from the Moretti syndicate had Victor pinned against the side of a shipping container.
Victor was bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to his shoulder, his dark suit ruined, one hand braced against a crate while he held a smoking pistol in the other, fighting back with lethal, desperate fury. But he was outgunned, outnumbered, and running out of ammunition.
Donato Moretti stood a few yards away, a sadistic grin carved across his scarred face, raising his pistol to deliver the final blow.
"Any last words, Rinaldi?" Moretti sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger.
I didn't hesitate.
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I didn't brake.
I slammed the heavy, bulletproof Rinaldi SUV straight through the chain-link security fence of the pier, engine screaming at maximum RPM, heading directly toward Moretti and his men at ninety miles per hour.
