Chapter 8 - The Shadow over Chicago
The oak door splintered inward on the third strike.
A broad-shouldered man in a black tactical vest burst into the room, his weapon raised.
Hannah didn't hesitate. She fired twice.
The first round struck the man in the right shoulder, severing the subclavian artery; the second took him in the upper thigh, tearing through the femoral tract. He collapsed instantly, screaming, his weapon clattering across the carpet as dark blood pooled rapidly beneath him.
The second man behind him paused, startled by the lethal precision of the fire coming from inside the room.
That half-second pause was fatal.
A sudden, deafening roar echoed from the outer courtyard—the sound of a heavy steel-reinforced SUV slamming through the grand glass conservatory doors at sixty miles an hour.
Shattering glass rained down through the grand hallway like a waterfall of diamonds.
Dominic Moretti stepped out of the driver’s side of the smoking vehicle before it had even fully stopped moving. He carried an Italian Benelli M4 shotgun in his hands, his face a terrifying mask of absolute, unadulterated fury.
He didn't speak. He didn't offer warnings.
The shotgun roared three times in rapid succession, the heavy double-ought buckshot tearing through the two men standing in the service hallway, lifting them off their feet and slamming them into the stone walls.
Dominic advanced through the house like an engine of death, his men pouring in behind him from two tactical vans parked in the ruined courtyard.
Within ninety seconds, the gunfire stopped.
The silence returned to the mansion, heavier now, thick with the smell of cordite, gasoline, and wet wool.
Dominic walked into his mother’s bedroom, his shotgun lowered, his charcoal suit coat splattered with dark crimson stains.
His eyes swept the room, ignoring the man bleeding out near the broken doorway, and locked onto Hannah.
She stood in the center of the room, her hair falling wild around her pale face, her hands still holding the small ivory revolver, her chest heaving as she fought for air.
Dominic walked straight to her. He reached out, took the revolver gently from her trembling hands, engaged the safety, and set it on the nightstand.
Then, without saying a word, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping his broad, heavy coat around her, burying his face in the side of her neck.
Hannah froze for a fraction of a second, then her strength completely gave way. Her arms came up, her hands clutching the back of his shirt, resting her head against his chest, listening to the heavy, thunderous beat of his heart.
One hundred and ten beats per minute. Fast. Terrified. Alive.
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“I have you,” Dominic whispered into her dark hair, his voice rough, broken, and filled with a raw emotion he had never permitted himself to feel in thirty-five years. “I have you, Hannah.”
Eleanor watched them from her armchair, a soft, tired smile touching her lips as she leaned back into the velvet cushions.
