Chapter 7 - Fire and Blood
The peace inside the guest suite, however, was shattered within minutes by the shrill, blaring shriek of the estate’s primary security alarm.
WEE-WOO! WEE-WOO!
Red emergency strobe lights began flashing along the vaulted ceilings of the fourth-floor corridor.
Damiano stood up instantly, his gentle warmth vanishing in a fraction of a second, replaced once more by the lethal tactical awareness of the Don of Moretti and Vitale Holdings. He drew his Beretta, thumbing off the safety with a sharp click.
The intercom panel beside the door crackled to life, broadcasting Enzo Rinaldi’s frantic voice through the static.
“Boss! We’ve got an incoming breach at the west perimeter gates!” Enzo shouted over the roar of gunfire in the background. “Renato had a contingency protocol set with a secondary cell of Bellandi mercenaries! They’re hitting the main house with a three-car convoy!”
Damiano’s gray eyes turned to ice. “How many men, Enzo?”
“At least fifteen! They’re heavily armed with automatic rifles and breaching charges! They’re trying to burn the house down to cover Renato’s tracks!”
“Hold the ground floor stairwells,” Damiano commanded, his voice ringing with absolute command. “Do not let them reach the family wing.”
“Copy that, boss! But—!”
The intercom cut out with a loud burst of static.
Damiano turned back to Clara, who had scooped Lily into her arms, her face white with terror.
“Listen to me, Clara,” Damiano said, his tone urgent but completely steady. “Take Lily and get into the reinforced panic room behind the walk-in wardrobe. The biometric lock is programmed to my voice and yours. Do not come out until I open the door myself.”
“Damiano—what about you?” Clara cried, grabbing the sleeve of his wet coat.
“I have a house to defend,” Damiano replied softly. He pressed a brief, fierce kiss to Clara’s forehead—a gesture so tender it stunned them both—before turning and striding out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the battle for the Vitale estate had erupted into a symphony of destruction.
Heavy automatic gunfire rattled against the reinforced stonework of the grand foyer. Glass from the vaulted stained-glass ceiling rained down across the marble floors as exterior security lights exploded under concentrated rifle fire.
Enzo Rinaldi crouched behind a marble pillar near the grand staircase, his shotgun barking rhythmically as he kept three mercenaries pinned near the shattered front doors.
“Enzo!” Damiano’s voice boomed from the landing above.
Enzo glanced up, reloading his shotgun with a swift flick of his wrist. “Boss! They’re pushing through the west parlor! The doors are holding, but the hinges won’t take another hit!”
Damiano descended the stairs with cold, deliberate steps, his Beretta raised in a two-handed combat grip. He didn't rush. He moved like an apex predator returning to reclaim his territory.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
A burst of automatic fire chewed through the wooden banister inches from Damiano’s head.
Without breaking stride, Damiano leaned around the corner of the marble archway, acquiring his targets with ruthless precision. Two rapid shots cracked through the smoke. Two mercenaries dropped instantly, taking fatal rounds to the chest plates.
“Push them back!” Damiano ordered, stepping out into the open foyer alongside Enzo.
Together, the two veterans unleashed a relentless wave of suppressive fire, driving the surviving mercenaries backward through the shattered front entrance and out onto the rain-soaked stone driveway.
Within ten minutes, the gunfire died down to scattered pops in the distance, followed by the screech of speeding tires as the remaining attackers fled into the dark Hudson Valley night.
Silence returned to the grand foyer, broken only by the crackle of a small fire near the draperies and the heavy breathing of the exhausted guards.
Damiano lowered his pistol, holstering it slowly. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, and a shallow graze across his ribs thrummed with a dull, burning ache.
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He had defended his house. He had protected his people.
And for the first time in twenty years, he didn't have to stand alone in the wreckage.
