Chapter 7 - The Syndicate’s Retaliation
Panic ripped through the small kitchen like a lightning bolt.
“Mommy, what’s happening?” Maya whimpered, sliding off her chair and grabbing the hem of Wren’s sweater, her big brown eyes filling with sudden tears.
“Nothing, baby, nothing at all,” Wren said, her voice shaking violently as she scooped Maya into her arms with one hand and grabbed Leo’s shoulder with the other. “Toby, come here right now! Hold my hand!”
“Wren, listen to me,” Weston commanded, stepping toward the hallway with his gun already drawn, the heavy black metal catching the kitchen light. “Take the kids into the back pantry. There’s a reinforced concrete storm cellar beneath the floorboards. Lock it from the inside and do not come out for any reason—do you hear me? Even if you hear gunshots, do not open that door unless I give you the secret passphrase.”
“What passphrase?” Wren cried out, tears spilling over her cheeks as she shielded Leo behind her legs.
“Kade,” Weston said, looking back at her with a look of absolute, terrifying devotion. “Only if I say my name through the wood do you open it. Go. Now!”
Crash!
The front living room window exploded inward in a shower of shattered glass and splintered wood.
Shouts echoed from the front hallway—rough, aggressive voices barking commands in Italian. Marchetti’s hitmen had arrived, and they weren't here to negotiate an engagement broken off by a diamond ring. They were here to send Weston Kade a message written in blood.
“Go!” Weston roared, pushing Wren and the children down the dark hallway toward the kitchen pantry.
Wren didn't argue anymore. Survival instinct took over. She bundled the three terrified children into the small pantry, cleared the crates of canned goods off the heavy floor hatch, and pulled it open.
“Get in, kids! Down the ladder, quick!” she urged, her voice cracking as Leo scrambled down into the dark concrete pit, followed by Maya and Toby.
“Mommy, come with us!” Toby screamed from the darkness below.
“I’m right behind you, baby,” Wren lied, her heart breaking into a million pieces.
She slammed the heavy oak hatch shut, threw the deadbolts, and spun around with a kitchen knife she had snatched from the counter, her chest heaving as heavy boots pounded down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The doorframe burst open.
A massive man in a black tactical vest stepped into the kitchen, leveling a silenced submachine gun directly at Wren’s chest. He smiled, a cruel, ugly smirk stretching across his scarred cheek.
“Well, well,” the hitman rasped, his Italian accent thick. “Boss Marchetti sends his regards. He says if Weston Kade wants to throw away a billion-dollar family, we should at least give him a proper funeral to attend.”
Wren tightened her grip on the kitchen knife, stepping backward toward the pantry hatch to shield her children with her own body. She raised her chin, her eyes flashing with a wild, desperate courage.
“You’ll have to go through me first,” she whispered.
The hitman laughed, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Before the bullet could leave the barrel, a shadow moved in the dark doorway behind the intruder.
A heavy, sickening thud echoed through the room.
Weston Kade slammed the butt of his pistol against the back of the hitman’s skull with enough force to shatter bone. The man dropped like a stone, hitting the linoleum floor without making another sound.
Weston stood over the unconscious body, his chest heaving, his gray eyes burning with a demonic fury. He looked at Wren, standing pale and trembling against the pantry door with a ridiculous kitchen knife in her hand.
“Are you hurt?” Weston demanded, rushing forward and grabbing her shoulders, his hands shaking as he checked her over for blood.
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“I’m fine! The kids are in the cellar!” Wren gasped, grabbing the lapels of his coat. “Weston, there are more of them—how many did you bring with you?”
“None,” Weston said grimly, pulling a second spare magazine from his pocket and snapping it into his gun. “I came alone so I wouldn't lead them straight to your door. Which means we have a dozen armed professionals in our living room, and only one way out.”
