Chapter 9 - The Siege at Lakeview
The following forty-eight hours passed in a blur of escalating tension. Roman’s estate had been fortified like a bunker, with additional security teams arriving from the East Coast. Claire was no longer allowed to leave the estate grounds; she spent her time reading to Ethan or watching the monitors in the security office, feeling like a bird in a gilded cage.
On Tuesday evening, the warning came.
A flash-flood of data hit the syndicate’s private network—a massive, coordinated digital assault that took down the security grid of the northern perimeter.
"They’re using military-grade jammers," Viktor reported, his face grim as he worked a console in the study. "They’re not here for business, boss. They’re here for an execution."
Claire stood in the corner of the study, holding Ethan’s hand. The boy was frightened but stoic, his eyes darting toward his father.
Roman stood by the fireplace, his Glock holstered, a semi-automatic rifle now resting in his hands. He looked at Claire, and for a fleeting second, the mask of the crime boss cracked.
"Take Ethan to the panic room in the basement," Roman ordered. "Viktor has the code. Do not come out until you hear my voice—no matter what you hear on the other side of that door."
"Roman, no!" Claire shouted.
"Go!"
She didn't argue. She grabbed Ethan and sprinted toward the hidden passage behind the library shelves. She slammed the door shut, locking it, and pressed her back against the cool steel wall, listening to the muffled sounds of automatic gunfire erupting upstairs.
The screams, the shattering glass, and the roar of grenades echoed through the vents.
Inside the panic room, Ethan buried his face in Claire’s shirt, sobbing silently. Claire pulled him into her lap, praying to a God she hadn't spoken to in years. She checked the monitor embedded in the wall.
The screen flickered. Roman was visible, moving through the hallway with lethal, flowing grace, taking down masked assailants with clinical precision. But there were too many. They were swarming the house like locusts.
Then, the screen went black.
Claire held her breath. Minutes stretched into hours. She heard heavy boots pounding on the ceiling above, then silence.
Then, a knock.
Three distinct, rhythmic taps on the steel door.
"Claire," Roman’s voice came through, strained and ragged. "Open the door."
She unlocked it, trembling.
May you like
Roman stood on the other side, his shirt torn, blood streaking his face, but he was standing. He looked at her, his eyes searching, and he collapsed forward, catching himself against the doorframe.
"They’re gone," he rasped. "But the city... the city is burning."
