Chapter 8 - Fire and Glass
The sonic crack of a high-caliber sniper rifle echoed across the penthouse, followed instantly by the violent spray of tempered glass raining down upon our backs.
Dante covered me completely with his heavy, muscular frame, his hands cradling the back of my neck, pressing my face into the cold marble. Another bullet ripped through the air, embedding itself into the wall above us, shattering an oil painting into shredded canvas and plaster dust.
"Leo!" I screamed, panic tearing through my lungs. "Clara!"
"Stay down!" Dante commanded, his voice steady, entirely in his element despite the chaos. He reached into his waistband, pulling his weapon, and keyed a small transmitter pinned to his collar. "Code Black. North face of the Columbian. Suppress sniper fire from the harbor building across the park. Bring the tactical unit up now!"
Alarms began to pulse within the penthouse—not the shrieking sirens of the airport, but deep, rhythmic bass thuds accompanied by the sudden descent of heavy steel shutters rolling down over the shattered glass windows, sealing the penthouse into an impenetrable bunker.
The gunfire ceased as the steel panels slammed into the floor, plunging the living room into the dim glow of emergency red lighting.
Dante rolled off me, his breathing heavy, his shirt dusted with pulverized glass. He grabbed my shoulders, checking me with frantic, rough hands. "Are you hit? Elena, look at me. Are you bleeding?"
"I'm fine! My son—where is my son?!"
I scrambled to my feet, slipping on the slick glass fragments, and sprinted down the hallway toward the guest suites. Dante was right behind me, his weapon drawn at low ready.
I kicked the guest bedroom door open.
Clara was huddled in the walk-in closet, shielding Leo beneath a heavy duvet. Leo was crying softly, his little fists clutching Clara's sweater.
"Mama!" he sobbed as I dropped to my knees in the closet, wrapping my arms around him, pulling him against my pounding heart.
"I'm here, baby. I'm here. You're safe," I whispered, kissing his tears, my own spilling uncontrollably down my cheeks.
Dante stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted by the red emergency lights. He lowered his gun, his chest rising and falling heavily as he watched me rock our son. His face was a mask of cold, unadulterated fury—a rage so profound it seemed capable of scorching the earth.
"They used military-grade armor-piercing rounds," Dante said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "Only Nikolai Volkov's personal guard has access to that ordnance in the Midwest."
"He knew we were here," I said, looking up at him through my tears. "How could he know we were here unless—"
"Victoria," Dante finished the sentence for me.
His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Dante pulled it out, looked at the screen, and accepted the call, pressing speakerphone.
"Dante, darling," Victoria’s smooth, melodic voice purred through the speaker, sickeningly sweet and utterly devoid of remorse. "I heard a nasty rumor that there was some commotion at the Columbian. Are you quite alright? Or did that little Swiss stray you picked up bring some unwanted pests into your pristine tower?"
Dante's jaw worked silently for three seconds. When he spoke, his voice was pure ice.
"If you ever breathe in the direction of my family again, Victoria, I will not wait for the federals. I will feed you to the stray dogs on the south docks piece by piece."
Victoria laughed—a chilling, theatrical sound. "Your family, Dante? I *am* your family. I am your wife. And whatever little bastards you found in Zurich won't change the fact that without Carter Logistics, your empire belongs to Moscow by midnight."
May you like
She hung up.
***
