Chapter 5 - The Shadow on the Balcony
My instinct was to scream.
I opened my mouth, my lungs expanding to let out a shriek that would wake the entire estate, but before a sound could escape my lips, a heavy, leather-gloved hand clamped firmly over my mouth.
An arm like an iron band wrapped around my waist, lifting me completely off my feet and pinning me against a broad, solid chest.
"Quiet," a voice growled directly into my ear.
It wasn't Vincenzo.
The voice was rougher, older, smelling of cheap bourbon and wet dog.
I thrashed wildly, driving my heel down onto his foot, but the man didn't even flinch. He pinned my arms to my sides with effortless, terrifying strength, dragging me backward toward the open balcony doors into the freezing rain.
In the dim moonlight, I caught a glimpse of his face. He wore a black tactical mask covering his nose and mouth, but his eyes were bloodshot, insane, and filled with a frantic, desperate greed. On the left side of his neck, sticking out from beneath his collar, was a dark tattoo—not a dragon, but a two-headed raven.
The Syndicate’s rival family. The Moretti cartel.
"Don't make a sound, little girl," the man whispered, his breath hot and putrid against my cheek. "You're the rat's daughter. You're worth fifty million to Don Moretti."
He reached into his jacket, pulling out a small syringe filled with clear liquid, aiming it toward my neck.
Panic seized my chest with white-hot terror. I twisted my head, biting down into his leather-gloved thumb with every ounce of force I possessed.
"Gah!" the man hissed, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
That second was all I needed.
I didn't run for the balcony. I didn't run for the door. I threw my body sideways, falling onto the carpet, grabbing the heavy brass floor lamp beside the crib, and swinging it with all my strength.
CRACK!
The heavy brass base slammed directly into the side of the assassin’s knee.
He let out a muffled scream of agony, his leg buckling beneath him as he crashed heavily onto the floor.
The commotion woke the baby.
Leo sat up in his crib, saw the masked stranger on the floor, and let out a shrill, piercing scream of terror.
The assassin scrambled to his feet, pulling a silenced pistol from his holster, pointing it directly at the crib. "Shut that brat up—!"
Before he could pull the trigger, the balcony glass exploded inward in a shower of a thousand glittering shards.
A dark figure burst through the shattered frame like a unleashed demon.
It was Vincenzo.
He didn't use a gun. He moved with a speed that defied human biology. In a single, fluid motion, he crossed the room, grabbed the assassin’s gun arm, and twisted it backward until the bone snapped through the skin with a sickening CRACK.
The assassin shrieked, dropping the weapon.
Vincenzo grabbed the man by the throat, driving him backward across the nursery, slamming his head violently against the stone fireplace mantel.
BANG!
The assassin went limp, collapsing onto the rug like a ragdoll, blood pooling beneath his head.
Silence returned to the room, broken only by the roaring ocean wind blowing through the shattered balcony glass and Leo’s frantic, terrified sobbing.
Vincenzo stood over the unconscious man, his chest heaving, his dark hair soaked with rain, his white shirt stained with blood. His storm-grey eyes were wild, unhinged, glowing with an absolute, predatory rage.
He turned his head slowly, looking at me.
I was sitting on the floor in the corner, bruised, shivering in my thin shirt, holding my chest as I gasped for air.
Vincenzo didn't look at the assassin. He didn't look at his crying son. He walked across the room, stepped over the broken glass, dropped to his knees in front of me, and grabbed my face in both of his massive, dragon-inked hands.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice a harsh, frantic roar that trembled with an emotion I had never heard in him before. "Did he touch you? Did he stick you with that needle?!"
His hands were trembling against my cheeks. The ruthless, emotionless mafia boss was gone; in his place was a man consumed by a terrifying, desperate panic.
"I... I'm okay," I choked out, tears streaming down my face. "I hit him with the lamp... I'm okay..."
Vincenzo closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against mine, letting out a long, shuddering breath that washed over my face.
"God," he whispered against my skin. "God, Mara..."
Leo’s screams grew louder from the crib, his little hands reaching through the wooden bars toward us.
Vincenzo pulled back, looking at me, then at his crying son.
"Pick him up," Vincenzo said gently, his voice softening into butter. "Pick him up, Mara."
I stood up on shaky legs, stepped over to the crib, and lifted Leo into my arms. The moment the baby reached my chest, he wrapped his arms tightly around my neck, burying his face in my collarbone, his body trembling violently against mine.
I held him tight, rocking him back and forth, kissing the top of his soft, fair head as I whispered quiet promises into his hair.
Vincenzo stood up slowly. He walked over to the unconscious assassin on the floor, kicked the dropped syringe across the room, and pulled a radio from his belt.
"Gabriel," Vincenzo said into the radio, his voice returning to that flat, lethal granite. "Clean up the West Wing nursery. We have a breach. And call my sister. Tell her to bring the war cabinet to the estate immediately."
He clicked the radio off, turned around, and looked at me holding his son in the moonlight.
"He came for you because of your mother," Vincenzo said softly, walking over and standing right beside me. "They know who you are now, Mara. The entire underworld knows."
I looked up into his dark, scarred face, feeling Leo’s small heart beating against mine.
"What does that mean?" I whispered.
May you like
Vincenzo reached out, his thumb gently wiping a tear from beneath my eye, his touch surprisingly soft for a hand that had just snapped a man’s arm in half.
"It means," Vincenzo said, "you can never leave this house. For your own safety... you are mine now."
