Chapter 7 - THE HOUSEKEEPER’S BLADE
She did not scream. She did not hesitate.
Elena lunged forward from the side of the bed, driving the heavy steel utility shears straight into the side of Marco’s neck!
The thick metal blades tore through the guard's collar, biting deep into his flesh! Marco let out a choked, wet gurgle, dropping his suppressed pistol as he stumbled backward, clutching his neck as blood gushed over his fingers!
Vincent spun around in absolute shock, pulling his own snub-nosed revolver from his belt—but Dante had already reacted.
Ignoring the agonizing, blinding pain of his shattered ribs, Dante threw himself out of the hospital bed! He grabbed the heavy metal IV pole, swinging it with all his remaining physical force across the room!
The thick steel pole slammed directly into the side of Vincent’s face!
Vincent’s revolver flew from his hand, clattering across the linoleum floor. Vincent crashed into the visitor table, his nose shattered, blood streaming down his charcoal suit.
Marco collapsed onto the floor near the doorway, motionless.
Dante fell to his knees on the cold floor, gasping for air, his surgical bandages tearing open as fresh red blood soaked through his hospital gown.
Elena instantly dropped beside him. She grabbed Marco’s fallen pistol from the floor, holding it with two trembling hands, aiming it directly at Vincent’s chest.
Vincent lay on the floor, groaning, wiping blood from his broken face. He looked up at the quiet maid holding a firearm with lethal resolve, and for the first time in fifteen years, Vincent Cole felt true, paralyzing terror.
“Elena...” Vincent spat out, coughing up blood. “I can give you a million dollars. I can give you everything this dead family owes you...”
“Shut up,” Elena said. Her voice did not shake. Her finger rested firmly on the trigger.
Dante pushed himself up onto one knee, leaning his heavy shoulder against the side of the bed. He looked at Vincent lying broken on the floor.
“Call Dominic,” Dante ordered Elena, his voice cold and terrifyingly calm.
Elena reached for the hospital landline on the bedside table with her left hand, keeping the pistol aimed at Vincent with her right. She dialed the private, secret number of Dante’s most terrifying, loyal enforcer—a man who had been isolated in the south district, waiting for a signal.
“Dominic,” Elena said into the receiver when a rough voice answered. “It’s Elena. The boss is alive at St. Jude’s. We have Vincent.”
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A pause on the line, followed by a low, murderous chuckle from Dominic.
“Tell the boss I’m bringing twenty men,” Dominic said. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”
