Chapter 7
I slipped into the shadows of the upper gallery just as two of Santoro’s masked
enforcers vaulted over the banister, automatic rifles raised.
"Clear the second floor!" one of them barked, his voice distorted by a tactical comms unit. "Santoro wants everyone wiped out. No witnesses."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but my mind was terrifyingly clear. I waited until the first enforcer passed my hiding spot near the linen closet. With a surge of adrenaline born from pure desperation, I swung the heavy brass candlestick with all my strength, catching him squarely behind the knee.
The man let out a brutal curse, collapsing hard onto the carpet. Before his partner could turn around, I lunged forward, kicking the rifle out of his hands and slamming the closet door shut on his arm.
It bought me thirty seconds. I bolted toward the master study, slipping inside just as the heavy oak door was secured behind Rosa and the girls.
Downstairs, the front doors were blown open with a deafening blast.
"Russo! Come out and play!" a voice roared through the foyer—not Santoro, but one of his ruthless lieutenants. "Burn the house down if you have to!"
Flames flickered through the floor vents as smoke began to rise up the grand staircase. The attackers had brought incendiary devices.
Before I could reach the intercom to check the security feeds, the sound of screeching tires tore through the driveway below.
A sleek black Maybach smashed through the burning iron gates, coming to a violent halt right in front of the marble steps.
The back door flew open.
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Dominic Russo stepped out of the vehicle.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His white shirt was soaked with rain and sweat, his holster was unclipped, and his face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated, apocalyptic rage. He didn't look like a billionaire CEO or a syndicate boss anymore. He looked like the angel of death.
