Chapter 5 - The Siege of Westchester
The assault on the Rossi estate was not a hit-and-run operation; it was a military strike.
Three armored SUVs had rammed through the wrought-iron front gates of the compound, followed by a dozen heavily armed hitmen wearing tactical vests and night-vision goggles. Victor Costa had spent five million dollars to hire former mercenary soldiers from Eastern Europe, desperate to end the war before Dominic burned his empire to the ground.
Inside the dark, smoke-filled corridors of the estate, the sound of gunfire was deafening.
Clara dragged Isabella down the grand hallway toward the central staircase. Smoke was pouring from the grand foyer, smelling of ozone, gunpowder, and burning wool carpets. Two Rossi guards lay motionless near the foot of the stairs, their white shirts soaked in blood.
"In here! Move!" Enzo’s voice barked from the shadows.
Enzo appeared around the corner, holding a submachine gun, his face covered in soot. He grabbed Clara’s arm, hauling her and Isabella toward the estate's reinforced panic room hidden behind the library bookshelf.
"Where is Dominic?!" Clara yelled over the sound of an exploding grenade in the courtyard.
"He’s on his way from the city!" Enzo shouted back, shoving them into the dark, steel-lined room. "His convoy was ambushed on the highway, but he cleared it! He’s five minutes out! Stay inside this room! Do not open the door for anyone except me or the Boss!"
Enzo slammed the heavy steel door shut. The electronic locks engaged with a heavy, ominous CLACK.
Inside, the panic room was illuminated by dim red emergency lights. Monitors mounted on the wall showed live feeds from the estate’s remaining security cameras.
Clara rushed to the monitors, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She watched the cameras in horror. On the camera monitoring the main driveway, three men in dark tactical gear were moving up the grand staircase. They were carrying heavy breaching charges, setting them against the very steel door Clara and Isabella were cowering behind.
"They’re going to blow the door," Clara whispered, her face pale as ash.
Isabella sat on a small leather bench, clutching her amber rosary, her lips moving rapidly in prayer. "God is our refuge and strength... an ever-present help in trouble..."
BOOM!
The camera feed went black as the first breaching charge detonated against the library wall. The heavy steel door of the panic room shuddered violently, sparks flying from the electronic keypads.
Clara looked around the small room frantically. On a stainless steel supply table near the wall lay an emergency medical kit, a satellite radio, and a sleek black lockbox.
She rushed to the lockbox. It was unlatched. Inside lay a compact Glock 19 pistol and two spare magazines.
Clara had never held a gun in her life. She was a girl who carried soup bowls and coffee pots. But as she looked at the heavy steel door buckling under a second explosive charge, something inside her—some dormant, feral instinct inherited from a father she had never known—snapped into place.
She grabbed the heavy black gun. Her hands trembled, but her grip was tight. She racked the slide back, driving a 9mm round into the chamber just as her father had taught himself thirty years ago.
BOOM!
The steel door flew inward, ripped off its hinges by a massive third charge.
Smoke and fire poured into the room.
A tall man in a black tactical vest stepped through the smoke, his assault rifle raised, his eyes scanning the red-lit room.
"Clear!" he shouted to his men outside. "The old woman and the girl are—"
BANG!
Clara pulled the trigger.
The recoil drove her arms back, the deafening report echoing off the steel walls. The bullet caught the hitman squarely in the throat. He let out a wet, choked sound, dropped his rifle, and collapsed backward onto the ruined bookshelf.
Outside in the hallway, two more mercenaries swore loudly, raised their weapons, and prepared to spray the room with automatic fire.
"DIE, YOU BITCH!" one shouted.
Before he could pull the trigger, a shadow materialized behind him in the smoky hallway.
A large, scarred hand reached out from the dark, grabbed the mercenary’s head, and drove it with sickening force into the marble doorframe. The second mercenary turned, but a sharp blade cut through the air, sinking deep into his collarbone.
Dominic Rossi stepped through the smoke.
He was soaked in rain and blood. His shirt was torn, his knuckles shredded, his dark eyes burning with an unholy, terrifying rage. He held a heavy Colt .45 in his right hand, steam rising from his body in the cool air of the ruined estate.
He walked into the panic room, ignoring the dead mercenary on the floor, ignoring the smoke, ignoring the alarms.
His eyes locked onto Clara.
She stood near the back wall, holding the smoking Glock in both hands, her posture defensive, her eyes wide with terror and adrenaline.
Dominic walked straight up to her. He didn't look at the gun pointed vaguely near his chest. He reached out, grabbed the barrel with his bare hand, shoved it safely toward the ceiling, and pulled Clara hard against his chest.
His arms wrapped around her like iron bands.
He buried his face in her hair, his heavy, frantic breaths hot against her neck.
"You're alive," Dominic rasped, his voice shaking with a raw, terrifying emotion he had never shown to a living soul. "You're alive... thank God... thank God..."
Clara stood frozen in his embrace. She felt the violent pounding of his heart against her ribs—not the calm, calculated beat of a crime lord, but the wild, frantic pulse of a man who had just looked into the abyss of losing the only thing that mattered to him.
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Slowly, her trembling hands dropped the empty gun. Her fingers reached up, clutching the wet fabric of his shirt, burying her face into his bloodstained collar.
And for the first time since the night she took seven bullets, Clara Evans didn't pull away.
