Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the Gates
The peace did not last through the night.
At 3:40 AM, the estate’s silent security alarm tripped. Richard was awake in an instant, rolling out of bed, grabbing his customized semi-automatic from the nightstand, and slipping down the dark hall like a wraith.
The Marcone family had finally made their move. Sensing Richard’s distraction, six armed men had breached the perimeter wall, moving toward the rear terrace to take the estate.
Richard encountered Luca in the gallery. Luca had two men with him, their weapons drawn.
“They’re at the glass doors of the conservatory,” Luca whispered. “We have them pinned, but they have automatic rifles.”
“Kill every single one of them,” Richard said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Do not let a single shot reach the west wing. My mother is sleeping.”
Before Richard could turn toward the stairs, a crash echoed from the kitchen wing. One of the intruders had slipped around the side, breaching the service entrance.
Valerie’s quarters were adjacent to the kitchen.
A blind, primal terror—something Richard had never experienced in his entire life—seized his chest. He forgot the syndicate. He forgot the battle in the garden. He moved toward the kitchen with blinding speed.
In the kitchen, a masked man in black tactical gear had Valerie pinned against the counter. Her uniform dress was torn at the shoulder, but she was fighting like a wildcat, her fingers clawing at his eyes, a heavy cast-iron skillet swinging wildly in her right hand.
“Shut up, you bitch—” the man snarled, raising the butt of his weapon.
He never finished the sentence.
Richard crossed the floor in two strides. His hand shot out, catching the man’s throat, slamming him backward into the stainless-steel prep table with enough force to shatter the man’s spine. The weapon clattered to the floor.
Richard didn't shoot him. He drew a combat blade from his boot and drove it through the man’s throat in one clean, brutal, merciless motion.
The intruder slumped to the floor, dead before he touched the tiles.
Blood pooled on the gleaming floor, but Richard didn't look down. He dropped the knife, lunging forward, his hands seizing Valerie by the waist, lifting her off her feet, slamming her against his chest.
“Are you hurt? Did he touch you?” Richard’s voice was wild, ragged, stripped of every ounce of aristocratic control. His hands roamed over her body—her shoulders, her waist, her hips—checking for wounds, his breath coming in jagged gasps. “Valerie. Look at me!”
Valerie was trembling violently, staring at the dead man on the floor, but as Richard’s warm, blood-stained hands cupped her face, the panic snapped. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his throat, sobbing against his skin.
“I’m okay,” she wept. “I’m okay. Richard… Eleanor… is she—”
“She is safe,” Richard choked out, burying his face in her auburn hair, holding her so tightly her ribs ached. He didn't care about the blood on his hands; he didn't care about the gunfire echoing outside in the gardens. “You’re safe. I have you. I have you.”
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In that bloody, ruined kitchen, holding the soft, trembling weight of the woman who had defied him, Richard Carter realized his mother had been right. His heart had broken through the stone.
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