Chapter 6 - THE FOYER BATTLE
The grand foyer of the Marlowe estate looked like a war zone.
The massive crystal chandelier above had been shattered by gunfire, raining thousands of glittering shards across the blood-stained marble staircase. Smoke from flashbang grenades hung thick in the air, stung with the bitter smell of cordite.
Vincent was kneeling behind a heavy fallen marble pillar at the base of the stairs. His suit jacket was gone, his white shirt torn and stained with dark crimson along his ribs. He was firing his heavy handgun with cool, lethal efficiency, holding off four Moretti mercenaries who were advancing from the main entrance.
Beside him, Samuel Cross was down, clutching a bullet wound in his shoulder, his ammunition completely depleted.
“Boss!” Samuel shouted over the deafening gunfire. “We’re out of mags! Tyler took the spare crate from the armory before the doors locked!”
“Hold your position!” Vincent commanded, his voice dark and gravelly, though he was down to his last three rounds.
From the top of the grand staircase, Tyler Kane stepped out onto the balcony, holding a heavy submachine gun. He was smiling—a slick, arrogant sneer that betrayed every ounce of his treason.
“Give it up, Marlowe!” Tyler yelled down into the foyer. “Sal Moretti’s main breach team is thirty seconds behind me! You’re done! The city belongs to us now!”
Vincent looked up at his former associate, his dark eyes burning with an icy, terrifying rage. “I raised you, Tyler. I gave you a seat at my table.”
“You treated me like a dog!” Tyler screamed back. “You made me apologize to that fat maid! You cared more about a worthless piece of trash scrubbing your floors than you did about me!”
Tyler raised his submachine gun, taking direct aim at Vincent’s exposed head.
BANG.
A sharp, loud gunshot echoed from the eastern hallway.
Tyler’s body jerked violently. The submachine gun slipped from his hands, clattering over the balcony railing to the marble floor below.
Tyler looked down at his own chest, where a blooming red stain was spreading rapidly over his heart. He looked toward the hallway in absolute shock.
Nora Bennett stood near the marble archway, holding Vance’s silenced pistol with both hands, her posture rigid, her feet planted wide, her eyes locked onto Tyler with terrifying focus.
She had fired a single, perfect shot through his chest.
Tyler stumbled backward over the balcony rail, plummeting thirty feet to the marble floor below, his body landing with a heavy, final thud.
Vincent stared at Nora in absolute, thunderstruck disbelief.
Before anyone could move, the front doors of the mansion were kicked open with a deafening bang.
Sal Moretti stepped into the foyer, flanked by his two final bodyguards. Sal held a heavy shotgun, his face twisted in a victorious, ugly grin as he looked at the wounded Vincent Marlowe.
“End of the line, Marlowe!” Sal roared, raising the shotgun.
Nora didn't think. She didn't hesitate.
She sprinted across the blood-soaked marble floor, hurling her body directly between Sal Moretti’s shotgun and Vincent’s chest—just as she had done six months ago in the ballroom for her father.
“NORA! NO!” Vincent screamed, a sound of absolute, soul-shattering agony tearing from his throat.
Vincent summoned every ounce of strength remaining in his battered body. He lunged forward, grabbing Nora by the waist, twisting her beneath him as he slammed them both behind the heavy marble pillar.
BOOM.
The shotgun blast tore through the air, shattering the stone column above their heads, showering them with marble dust.
In the same split second, Samuel Cross pulled a hidden backup revolver from his ankle holster and fired three rapid shots into Sal Moretti’s chest.
Sal choked on his own blood, dropping the shotgun, stumbling backward into his bodyguards before collapsing onto the front steps. The remaining mercenaries, seeing their leader dead and the house surrounded by approaching police sirens, dropped their weapons and fled into the night.
Silence descended upon the grand foyer.
The thick smoke slowly drifted toward the shattered skylights above.
Vincent lay on the floor, holding Nora tightly against his chest, his arms wrapped around her so fiercely she could barely breathe. His heart was hammering like a frantic drum, his breathing ragged and frantic.
“Nora... Nora, look at me,” Vincent gasped, his hands trembling violently as he cupped her face, searching her body for blood. “Are you hit? Tell me! Are you hurt?!”
Nora looked up into his dark eyes. For the first time since she had met him, the legendary, terrifying crime boss of Chicago was crying. Raw, silent tears were cutting tracks through the dust on his face.
“I’m okay, Vincent,” Nora whispered, reaching up to cover his hand with her own. “I’m not shot. I’m okay.”
Vincent let out a ragged, trembling sob, pressing his forehead against hers, pulling her small, soft body against his heart as if he would never let her go.
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“Don't you ever do that again,” Vincent growled softly, his voice cracking with intense emotion. “Don't you ever place yourself between me and a bullet again.”
“I’ll do it every single time, Vincent,” Nora whispered, smiling softly through her own tears. “Because you’re worth saving.”
