Chapter 4 - The Breach
The Valenti syndicate had not retreated to Detroit. They had staged a diversion at the docks to draw Dominic’s outer perimeter patrols away, leaving the main estate vulnerable to a full-scale tactical assault.
Dominic reacted instantly.
He pulled a sleek black handgun from his waistband, rack-chambering a round with a lethal metallic click.
"Stay in this room," Dominic ordered, dragging a heavy oak wardrobe across the doorframe to fortify the entrance. "Lock the internal steel shutter!"
"Dominic, your shoulder!" Lena shouted over the blaring alarm.
"It will hold!" Dominic called back, his eyes flashing with raw, predatory energy. "Marcus! Report!"
"They brought two armored trucks through the front gates!" Marcus’s voice cracked over the hallway intercom system. "They’re using heavy breaching charges on the main foyer!"
An explosion rocked the mansion. The glass in the windows shattered, and the floor vibrated beneath Lena’s feet. Plaster dust fell from the ceiling like white snow.
Lena didn't hide in the closet.
Her medical training pushed past the instinct to cringe. She sprinted to the adjoining bathroom, grabbed three heavy medical supply kits, and began dragging heavy blankets toward the central bathtub—the safest place in the suite against shrapnel.
Outside in the corridor, the chaos was terrifying. Automatic gunfire, shouted orders, and the heavy thud of falling bodies echoed through the marble hallways.
Suddenly, a loud thud hit the door of Lena’s guest room.
The oak wardrobe shifted violently. Someone was kicking the heavy wooden door from the outside.
Lena grabbed a heavy brass floor lamp from beside the bed, holding it like a baseball bat, her knuckles white with strain.
The door burst open, splintering around the lock.
A tall man in tactical gear wearing a black balaclava stepped into the room, holding a submachine gun. He scanned the room, his eyes locking onto Lena standing near the bed.
"Well, well," the man rasped through his mask, his voice thick with a heavy Michigan accent. "Marlowe’s little prize. Boss said to bring you alive if we could."
He lunged forward, reaching for her arm.
Lena didn't scream. She swung the heavy brass lamp with all the force of her broad shoulders, slamming the weighted base directly into the side of the man’s helmet.
CRACK!
The man stumbled back, disoriented, blood spurting from his nose through the fabric of his mask.
Before he could recover, a dark shadow materialized in the doorway behind him.
Dominic grabbed the attacker by the back of his tactical vest, spinning him around and slamming his head into the doorframe with terrifying force. The man went limp, dropping to the floor like a sack of rocks.
Dominic stood over the unconscious attacker, his dark hair messy, blood splattered across his cheek, breathing heavily. He looked like a demon rising from hell.
Then he looked at Lena holding the bent brass lamp.
A slow, fierce, almost manic grin broke across Dominic’s face.
"Remind me never to anger you with a lamp," Dominic panted, stepping over the body and grabbing Lena by her shoulders, pulling her against his chest in a desperate, fiercely protective hug. "Are you hit? Are you hurt?"
"I’m fine!" Lena gasped, burying her face in his neck, smelling gunpowder and his distinct oaky cologne. "What about downstairs?"
"Marcus secured the foyer," Dominic replied, holding her tightly. "The Valenti commander is dead. The rest are fleeing toward the highway. It’s over."
Lena pulled back slightly, looking up into his blood-stained face. She reached up with a gentle hand, wiping a smudge of dark blood from his cheekbone.
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"You came back for me," she whispered.
"I will always come back for you, Lena," Dominic answered, his voice dropping into a solemn vow. "Always."
