Chapter 8 - The Price of Survival
"Push, child! Push!" Mrs. Gable screamed over the sound of a grenade exploding in the downstairs foyer. The floor beneath the bed shook violently, throwing a vase off the bedside table, shattering it on the hardwood floor.
"AAAGHHH!" I screamed, my voice tearing in my throat, every muscle in my abdomen contracting in a violent, desperate effort to expel the life inside me.
Downstairs, heavy boots pounded up the grand staircase. Voices shouted in Italian—rough, unfamiliar voices.
“Clear the west wing! Find the girl! Marco wants the wife and the kid!”
Gunfire answered them—short, controlled bursts from Mateo’s men holding the gallery.
"She's coming! The head is out!" Mrs. Gable cried out, her hands reaching forward. "One more, Elena! One more big push!"
I didn't have any strength left. My vision was swimming with black spots. My heart was pounding so fast I could hear the blood roaring in my ears. I was fading, slipping down into the dark velvet unconsciousness that had been chasing me for days.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the master suite were kicked open with a thunderous crack.
A man stepped into the room.
He wasn't Mateo.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a blood-soaked tactical vest, holding a shortened assault rifle. A jagged scar ran down his left cheek.
Marco Moretti.
Mrs. Gable shrieked, scrambling backward against the nightstand.
Marco swept the room with his barrel, his eyes landing on me—lying on the bloodied towels, half-naked, sweat-soaked, holding the headboard, with the crown of my child visible between my legs.
A cruel, disgustingly triumphant grin spread across Marco’s scarred face.
"Well, well, well," Marco drawled, stepping over the threshold, his boots leaving bloody footprints on the carpet. "Nico went all the way to Newark to kill three of my decoys, while I came here to take his crown."
He raised the rifle, pointing the black barrel directly at my forehead.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Vitale."
"MARCO!"
A voice roared from the hallway behind him—a sound so full of primal, demonic fury it didn't sound human.
Before Marco could pull the trigger, a dark shadow burst through the doorway like a freight train.
Nico.
He was covered in blood—some of it his own, most of it not. His suit jacket was gone, his shirt torn to ribbons, his face splattered with dark red. He didn't use a gun. He slammed his broad shoulder directly into Marco’s chest, driving the rival boss across the room with terrifying force.
They crashed into the heavy marble fireplace.
The rifle flew out of Marco’s hands, clattering across the floor.
Nico didn't give him a chance to recover. He grabbed Marco by the throat, driving his head backward against the sharp marble mantlepiece once, twice, three times, with a sickening, heavy CRACK that echoed through the room.
Marco’s body went completely limp, dropping to the carpet like a sack of wet stones.
Nico stood over him, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his hands dripping blood onto the floor.
He turned slowly.
His dark eyes swept the room, passing over the shattered glass, the bullet holes in the plaster, and finally locking onto me.
The killer in his eyes evaporated instantly.
"Elena," Nico gasped, dropping his weapon, staggering toward the bed on unsteady legs. "Elena..."
A massive, final contraction gripped my body.
"Nico!" I screamed, reaching out my hand. "PULL HER OUT!"
Nico didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed, ignoring the blood, the carnage, his own injuries. His large, trembling hands reached out, wrapping gently around the shoulders of our child as I gave one last, desperate, soul-shattering push.
The baby slid into his hands.
Silence fell over the room.
For three horrifying, agonizing seconds, the tiny, dark-haired baby lay motionless in Nico’s large hands, covered in white vernix and blood. She wasn't breathing.
"Nico... clear her mouth!" I wept, my voice barely a whisper. "Use... use the suction bulb from the kit!"
Nico grabbed the small blue rubber bulb from the trauma kit Mrs. Gable had brought, his hands amazingly steady despite the horror around us. He squeezed the bulb, inserted it gently into the baby's tiny mouth and nostrils, and released it.
A high-pitched, sharp, glorious gasp filled the room.
Followed by a loud, furious, ringing cry.
WAHHHH! WAHHHH!
The sound of our daughter’s voice cut through the smell of gunpowder and blood like a ray of pure golden light.
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Nico let out a ragged, sob-like laugh, pulling the tiny crying baby up to his chest, wrapping her in a clean white towel. He collapsed against the side of the bed, resting his forehead against my hip, holding our daughter close to his heart while tears washed clean tracks through the blood on his face.
"She’s here," Nico sobbed, his voice completely broken. "She’s here, Elena. She’s safe."
