Chapter 2 - The Fire in the Rain
“Behind the pillar,” Roman commanded, his voice shifting instantly into the hard, absolute tone of a commander on a battlefield.
“I’m not hiding,” Amelia snapped back, stepping directly up to his left shoulder, her iron pipe raised.
Roman didn't argue. There was no time.
The heavy wooden loading doors at the eastern end of the warehouse splintered inward with a deafening crash as a lifted Ford F-150 smashed through the rusted frame. The truck skidded sideways on the wet concrete, its high beams blinding them both in a harsh sea of white light.
Four doors flew open simultaneously.
Four men in rain-soaked tactical gear tumbled out, carrying short-barreled automatic shotguns. They didn't call out a surrender. They didn't ask questions. They raised their weapons to clear the floor with lead.
Roman moved with lethal precision. He fired three rapid shots through the glare of the truck’s headlights. The lead shooter took two heavy 9mm rounds to the center chest, dropping instantly against the truck’s bumper.
The remaining three shooters opened fire. Heavy buckshot shredded the air, tearing through wooden pallets and shattering empty glass bottles into glittering clouds of dust.
Roman grabbed Amelia’s upper arm, using his body as a solid shield to shove her behind the concrete support pillar just as a spray of pellets slammed into the stone, showering them with sparks and concrete dust.
“They aren't here to capture you,” Roman growled, his back pressed against the cold pillar, his eyes darting to the remaining rounds in his magazine. “They’re clearing the site.”
“It’s the Vanguard,” Amelia whispered near his ear, her breathing fast but controlled. “Garrett’s backup. If he missed his check-in, they were ordered to burn the warehouse.”
“Who pays them?” Roman demanded, dropping his empty magazine onto the floor and slapping a fresh nineteen-round mag into the heel of his grip.
“I never saw their faces,” Amelia replied cold, dark rage lacing her tone. “Garrett received cash envelopes every Friday. Stamped with a red wax crest. A crescent moon over an anvil.”
Roman’s hazel eyes narrowed into slits of pure, lethal fire.
The anvil crest. It belonged to the Moretti family—the oldest, most conservative faction of the Chicago underworld, led by ninety-year-old Don Silvano Moretti, a man who had sat at the same peace tables as Roman’s late father.
“Keep your head down,” Roman ordered softly.
Before Amelia could protest, Roman stepped out from behind the pillar, fully exposing himself to the truck’s blinding high beams.
The two surviving shooters swung their shotguns toward him, but Roman was already moving. He fired five controlled shots in less than two seconds. The rounds shattered the truck’s windshield, striking both men in the upper throat and face. They collapsed into the wet gravel, their weapons clattering uselessly against the tires.
Silence returned to the warehouse, broken only by the idling rumble of the truck’s V8 engine and the steady hiss of rain dripping through the roof.
Roman stepped over the bodies, verifying each target with a swift boot tap before turning back to the pillar.
Amelia stepped out into the light. She looked at the blood pooling on the wet concrete, then down at her rusted iron pipe, and finally at Roman.
“They know this location now,” she said quietly. “More will come.”
Roman reholstered his weapon, stepping close to her. The smell of gunsmoke, wet leather, and rain hung heavy between them.
“They won't get another chance,” Roman said flatly. He reached out, his gloved fingers gently gripping her thin wrist, avoiding the sensitive white scars. “You are coming with me, Amelia.”
Amelia looked down at his gloved hand on her wrist. She did not pull away, but she lifted her chin, her pale blue-gray eyes locking onto his with terrifying intensity.
“I am not going into another cage, Roman Duca,” she warned softly. “Not even yours.”
May you like
Roman leaned down until his eyes were level with hers.
“I am not taking you to a cage, Amelia,” Roman swore, his baritone voice carrying a promise that echoed off the high rafters. “I am taking you to my throne. And tomorrow morning, the entire city will know that anyone who touched a hair on your head is already dead.”
