Chapter 7 - The Shadows Strike
The storm that hit Long Island at midnight was the worst the coast had seen in five years.
Thunder rolled across the dark waters of the sound, shaking the tall glass windows of the Rossi mansion. Torrential rain lashed against the stone walls, cutting off the estate’s primary landline communications.
Inside the nursery, the room was warm and quiet, illuminated only by the soft orange glow of the nightlight.
Hunter sat in the velvet armchair, holding Leo, who was finishing his late-night feeding. The three-month-old baby was robust, heavy, and thriving, his little hands resting contentedly against her chest.
Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out.
The mansion’s backup generators failed to kick in.
Hunter froze. A cold instinct—the same instinct that had kept her alive in West Virginia—shot through her spine.
Click.
It wasn't the sound of thunder. It was the faint, metallic sound of glass being cut on the ground floor terrace.
Hunter immediately detached Leo, pulling her cashmere robe tight around her chest, and slid silently out of the chair. She walked to the nursery closet, pulled open a hidden floor panel that Mateo had shown her two weeks ago, and placed baby Leo inside the padded emergency safe.
“Stay quiet, sweet boy,” she whispered, kissing his forehead before locking the heavy steel door from the outside.
She grabbed a heavy brass candleholder from the nightstand, her knuckles turning white.
Outside in the hallway, gunshots suddenly erupted.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Silenced gunfire tore through the dark corridors, followed by the heavy thuds of bodies hitting the marble floor.
The Morettis hadn't waited for war. They had sent a twelve-man hit squad through the coastal rocks under the cover of the hurricane, seeking to wipe out Lorenzo, Hunter, and the baby in one bloody night.
The nursery door was kicked off its hinges with a violent crash.
A heavy-set hitman in black tactical gear burst into the room, his night-vision goggles glowing green in the dark. He raised an automatic submachine gun, sweeping the room.
He didn't expect the maid.
Hunter didn't hide. She lunged from behind the doorway with all the strength born of a mother who had already lost one child and refused to lose another.
She smashed the heavy brass candleholder across the hitman’s face.
CRACK!
The man roared in pain, his night-vision goggles shattering, blood spurting from his broken nose. He stumbled backward, firing a wild burst of bullets into the ceiling.
Hunter didn't give him a second to recover. She threw her entire body weight against his chest, driving him backward into the hallway railing.
“You filthy bitch!” the hitman snarled, grabbing her by her throat with one huge hand, squeezing until her vision flickered with black spots. He raised his pistol to aim at her forehead.
BOOM!
A shot echoed like thunder down the hall.
The hitman’s head snapped backward as a hole opened between his eyes. His grip collapsed, and his heavy body tumbled over the stone railing, crashing three floors down into the foyer below.
Hunter fell to her knees, gasping for air, her hands clutching her bruised neck.
Standing at the end of the hallway, bathed in the flash of lightning from the broken terrace window, was Lorenzo.
He looked like a demon rising from hell. His shirt was torn, soaked in blood—none of it his own. In his right hand, he held a heavy shotgun, smoke curling from the barrel.
“Hunter!” Lorenzo roared, dropping his weapon and sprinting down the corridor toward her.
He dropped to his knees, pulling her into his arms with a desperation that shook his entire frame. His large hands cupped her face, his thumb wiping blood from a glass scratch on her cheek.
“Are you hurt? Did he touch you? Where is Leo?!” Lorenzo cried frantically, his dark eyes wide with uncharacteristic panic.
“Leo is safe... in the floor vault...” Hunter gasped out, leaning her forehead against his chest, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. “I locked him in...”
Lorenzo let out a long, ragged groan of profound relief. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face in her dark, rain-soaked hair, holding her so hard she could barely breathe.
“You fought them,” Lorenzo whispered, his voice trembling with an intense, raw awe. “You took down an armed assassin with your bare hands...”
“I told you,” Hunter whispered, looking up into his dark, blood-splattered face. “Nobody touches our son.”
Lorenzo looked down at her lips. The adrenaline, the terror, the fierce, undeniable love that had been building between them for weeks exploded into a single, unstoppable moment.
He leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't a soft kiss. It was hard, passionate, and possessive—a seal forged in blood and fire. Hunter wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back with all the hunger and longing she had buried deep in her soul.
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When he finally pulled back, his dark eyes were burning with an eternal flame.
“Tomorrow,” Lorenzo growled softly against her mouth, “we end the Morettis.”
