Chapter 6 - The Anatomy of a Breach
The second shot hit the brickwork outside the studio window, showering the freshly glazed skylight with shards of red clay and pulverized mortar.
Roman didn't shout. He didn't drop to his knees.
In a single, fluid motion that seemed to defy the laws of momentum, his left arm wrapped around Gemma’s waist, lifting her off her feet and driving her down behind the heavy oak workbench. He came down over her like an iron lid, his chest pressing her into the floorboards, his body shielding her from the glass that rained down as the skylight shattered under a burst of automatic fire.
"Dominic," Roman said into the lapel of his waistcoat, his voice calm, steady, and utterly devoid of panic.
"Two vehicles," Dominic’s voice crackled through the miniature receiver pinned to Roman’s collar. "Black Dodge Rams, stolen plates out of Jersey. Six shooters on the street, two on the roof opposite. We’re engaging."
The sound of gunfire erupted from Tenth Avenue—the deep, rhythmic boom of Dominic’s .45 answering the high, chattering rattle of submachine guns.
Gemma lay pinned beneath Roman’s weight. She could smell the oil on his gun, the wool of his waistcoat, the sharp, metallic tang of the shattered skylight above them. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a bird trapped in a wooden box, but the weight of the Kevlar-lined indigo dress held her firm, preventing the jagged shards of glass on the floor from penetrating her skin.
"Look at me," Roman commanded.
She forced her eyes open. His face was inches from hers, his slate eyes wide, clear, and glowing with an unholy, terrifying focus. He was not afraid. He looked like an apex predator that had finally been given permission to hunt in his own territory.
"Are you hit?" he asked.
"No," she gasped, her voice trembling. "The... the panel. The Van der Weyden—"
"The panel is wood, Gemma," he growled softly, his hand reaching down to check the seating of the automatic pistol in his holster. "You are flesh. Stay down."
He rolled off her, keeping his back flat against the heavy oak pedestal of the bench. He pulled the Sig Sauer from beneath his arm, racked the slide with a single, sharp jerk of his thumb, and glanced up toward the mezzanine window that overlooked the fire escape.
A shadow crossed the frosted glass.
Someone was on the fire escape, using a crowbar against the secondary emergency door.
"Roman," Gemma whispered, pointing toward the ceiling.
"I see him," Roman said.
He did not wait for the door to yield. He rose into a low crouch, leveled the pistol with both hands, and fired three rounds through the solid mahogany door panel.
The heavy wood splintered. A muffled grunt sounded from the other side, followed by the clatter of a dropping crowbar and the heavy, wet thud of a body tumbling down the iron steps into the alley below.
The gunfire on the street ceased with sudden, violent finality.
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the hiss of a punctured radiator in the street and the rhythmic crunch of boots on broken glass outside the landing door.
"Boss?" Dominic’s voice called from the stairs.
"Clear," Roman answered.
Dominic appeared in the doorway, his trench coat torn along the left shoulder, his face smeared with black powder residue, his .45 still held at the low ready. Behind him stood two of the perimeter guards, their weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the corners of the studio.
"Four dead on the asphalt," Dominic reported, his breathing heavy but controlled. "Two in the secondary vehicle tried to run toward Eleventh Avenue; Paul cut them off at the intersection. We have one alive in the van. A kid from Vincent Moretti’s crew in Corona."
Roman stood up slowly, brushing a sliver of skylight glass from the sleeve of his white shirt. He holstered the pistol, adjusted his cuffs, and looked down at Gemma, who was still sitting on the floorboards, her back against the workbench, her hands clenched in the indigo silk.
He extended his right hand to her.
"Get up, Miss Vance."
Gemma looked at his hand—large, calloused, the knuckles steady as iron. She took it. The strength in his grip was absolute; he lifted her to her feet with effortless ease, drawing her up until she was standing inches from his chest.
She was trembling, but her gaze did not drop.
"They came for me," she whispered.
"They came for what they thought was mine," Roman corrected. "And they made a fatal error."
"What error?"
Roman turned toward Dominic, his voice dropping into that chilling, clinical cadence that signaled the end of an entire family.
"Bring the boy from the van to the basement on Pier Forty-Two," Roman ordered. "Tell Volkov the dinner at the consulate is back on for tonight. And call Vincent Moretti’s personal cell phone."
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Dominic grinned—a terrible, jagged smile. "What should I tell Vincent?"
"Tell him his nephew failed his driver's test," Roman said softly. "And tell him that by midnight, the Costa family will be collecting the trash in Queens."
