Chapter 8 - Blood and Snow
The first snow of the winter season had begun to fall outside, dusting the Oak Park lawn with a fine layer of white frost that was quickly turning crimson beneath the shattered front windows.
Weston moved through the dark hallway like a ghost.
Years of surviving turf wars, assassination attempts, and corporate bloodbaths had honed his reflexes into something lethal and mechanical. He didn't hesitate. He didn't blink. Every corner he turned, every doorway he cleared, ended with the dull, muffled crack of a suppressed pistol and the heavy thud of a Marchetti operative hitting the floor.
He cleared the living room, neutralized two men trying to breach the kitchen window, and kicked the front door wide open to draw remaining fire away from the back of the house where the children were hidden.
“Kade!” a voice roared from behind a parked SUV on the snowy street.
Three men emerged from the shadows, their weapons raised.
Weston didn't dive for cover. He stepped out onto the snowy porch, the cold wind catching his dark hair, and fired three rapid shots with terrifying, executioner-style precision.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
All three men dropped before they could squeeze their triggers.
Silence descended over the suburban street once more, broken only by the gentle swirling of snowflakes and the hiss of steam rising from the idling engine of the hitmen’s black van parked at the curb.
Weston stood on the porch for a long, silent moment, his chest rising and falling, his gun smoking in the freezing air. He checked his pockets. Out of ammunition. The slide of his pistol locked back in the empty position.
He tossed the useless weapon aside, let out a ragged breath, and turned back toward the house.
The front door creaked open.
Wren stood in the doorway, her face pale, holding a heavy iron skillet in her hand just in case. When she saw the empty hallway and the quiet street outside, the skillet slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the hardwood floor.
“Weston?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“It’s over,” Weston said, walking slowly up the steps and into the house. He looked exhausted, his clothes stained with soot and snow, but as he reached her, his arms wrapped around her waist with desperate, crushing strength.
Wren didn't push him away. She buried her face in his broad chest, her hands clutching his shirt as the delayed shock of the attack finally caught up to her, wracking her body with violent, silent sobs.
“I’ve got you,” Weston murmured against her hair, his own voice cracking as he held her tighter than he had ever held anything in his life. “I’ve got you, Wren. I’m never letting you go again.”
From down the hallway, the floor hatch of the pantry slowly creaked open.
Three little heads popped out of the dark concrete pit.
“Mommy?” Leo called out tentatively, climbing out of the hatch, followed closely by Maya and Toby.
Wren pulled back from Weston, wiping her face with her hands, and rushed down the hall to scoop her children into her arms, covering their faces with frantic, tearful kisses.
Weston stood in the doorway watching them—his family, his heart, his entire world kneeling on a hallway rug in a battered suburban house.
May you like
He walked down the hall, knelt beside them on the floor, and reached out a trembling hand.
Leo looked up, staring at Weston with those familiar gray eyes, before slowly leaning forward and allowing his father’s calloused hand to rest gently on his dark curls.
