Chapter 6 - THE NIGHT OF THE SIEGE
Three days later, the storm finally broke.
A heavy autumn rain lashed against the high glass windows of the Duca estate, blacking out the surrounding pine forests in a wall of downpour and fog.
At 2:00 AM, the estate’s outer perimeter alarm triggered silently.
Inside the third-floor master suite, Lorenzo was awake before the second chime sounded. He swung his legs out of bed, pulling a dark tactical jacket over his shirt and sliding two custom silver handguns into his shoulder holsters.
He walked swiftly down the carpeted hallway toward Clara’s room.
When he opened the door, Clara was sitting up in bed, holding Mia close against her chest. Pino was standing by the balcony glass, his dark fur raised, a low, vicious growl vibrating in his chest.
“Lorenzo...?” Clara whispered, her eyes wide with fear as she saw the weapons on his coat.
“Silvio’s mercenaries crossed the river ten minutes ago,” Lorenzo said calmly, stepping into the room. “They think the rain will cover their approach. They are mistaken.”
Lorenzo pulled a small, silver key from his pocket and unlocked a concealed reinforced door behind the oak wardrobe, revealing a brightly lit, high-tech panic room equipped with satellite communications, food supplies, and security monitors.
“Get inside,” Lorenzo instructed softly, taking Mia from Clara’s arms and placing her gently onto a soft plush armchair inside the safe room.
Clara grabbed Lorenzo’s sleeve before he could step back into the bedroom. “Lorenzo... please. Be careful.”
Lorenzo looked down at her small hand gripping his sleeve. He raised his hand, wrapping his warm fingers over hers, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, quiet passion.
“I have spent thirteen years fighting for land and money, Clara,” Lorenzo murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Tonight, I am fighting for my home. Stay inside until I come back for you.”
He pulled the heavy reinforced door shut, locking it from the outside, leaving Clara and Mia in absolute safety.
Downstairs, the silence of the estate was shattered by the sharp, echoing sound of breaking glass and heavy gunfire.
Silvio’s thirty mercenary operatives had breached the east conservatory, expecting to catch a sleeping household off guard.
Instead, they walked directly into a slaughterhouse.
Lorenzo’s elite tactical guards, trained in close-quarters urban combat, hit them from the upper balconies with suppressed rifles. The conservatory descended into absolute chaos—muzzle flashes illuminating the falling rain, screaming men, and the shattering of high-end glass.
Lorenzo walked down the grand marble staircase with slow, deliberate precision.
He moved through the smoke and gunfire like a phantom of death. Every shot he fired was precise, lethal, and absolute. Two mercenaries rushed him near the dining hall; Lorenzo eliminated them in three seconds flat without breaking his stride.
Within twenty minutes, twenty-eight of Silvio’s operatives lay neutralized on the marble floors of the east wing.
The remaining two mercenaries were dragged into the center of the great hall by Marco and held at gunpoint.
Lorenzo stood under the chandelier, his tactical jacket smudged with gunpowder, wiping a drop of blood from his cheek with a white handkerchief.
“Clear the halls,” Lorenzo ordered Marco calmly. “And bring my car around.”
Marco looked at him in surprise. “Your car, Boss? Where are we going?”
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Lorenzo checked the magazine of his silver handgun, sliding it back into his shoulder holster with a sharp, metallic click.
“Don Silvio thought he could send men to my home while he sat safely in his villa,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into an abyssal darkness. “It’s time I returned the visit.”
