Chapter 6 - Blood and Linen
The peace of the Upstate manor was shattered in an instant.
Frank burst into the library, his coat stained with dark blood, holding a tactical radio in his left hand. His face was unnaturally pale.
"Boss," Frank said, his voice clipped and strained. "It wasn't Moretti. It was a setup."
Raphael was on his feet in a second, pushing Maya behind him instinctively. "Explain."
"Gennaro," Frank spat, naming Raphael’s secondary lieutenant in Queens—a man who had served the Marino family for twenty years. "He sold the manor's GPS coordinates to an independent mercenary outfit out of New Jersey. They breached the outer gate two minutes ago. They cut the main power lines."
As if on cue, the library’s chandelier flickered once and died, plunging the vast manor into pitch blackness, illuminated only by the dying orange embers of the fireplace.
Outside, the heavy stutter of automatic weapon fire erupted across the manicured lawns.
"Get her to the subterranean wine cellar!" Raphael ordered Frank, drawing a heavy silver pistol from his shoulder holster. "Now!"
"Raphael, no!" Maya cried, grabbing his arm in the dark.
"Go with Frank!" Raphael commanded, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "I am not letting them take you!"
Raphael stepped out into the dark hallway, firing three precise shots toward the grand staircase as dark figures poured through the shattered front windows.
Frank grabbed Maya’s arm, guiding her down the dark service corridor toward the basement stairs. Barnaby ran right beside them, his sharp senses navigating the dark house far better than any human could.
They reached the heavy iron door of the wine cellar. Frank unlocked it, shoving Maya and Barnaby inside into the cool, damp darkness smelling of oak barrels and aging wine.
"Stay here! Don't open this door for anyone!" Frank barked, locking the heavy bolt from the outside.
For twenty agonizing minutes, Maya sat in the dark cellar, listening to the muffled echoes of gunfire, breaking glass, and shouting echoing through the floorboards above. Barnaby sat beside her, his body vibrating with tension, his ears twitching at every distant bang.
Then, the gunfire stopped.
Absolute, suffocating silence reclaimed the estate.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
Maya couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed a heavy iron candleholder from a side table, walked to the cellar door, and used the tip of her nail file to work the internal manual release catch—a mechanism Dr. Vance had once shown her on emergency doors.
The iron latch clicked. The heavy door swung open.
Maya stepped out into the dark service hallway, holding the candleholder like a club. Barnaby trotted ahead, his nose low to the floor, sniffing the air cautiously.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and iron.
She navigated the dark hallway, reaching the primary study near the grand foyer. The room was in ruins—bookshelves overturned, velvet curtains shredded by bullets, shattered glass covering the floor.
Lying against the overturned mahogany desk in the center of the room was Raphael Marino.
His shirt was soaked through with dark crimson blood. He was clutching his lower abdomen with both hands, his breathing shallow, ragged, and wet. Beside him lay two fallen mercenaries, completely still.
"Raphael!" Maya screamed, dropping the candleholder and dropping to her knees beside him.
Raphael’s eyes opened slowly, heavy and unfocused. A faint, bloody smile touched his lips when he saw her face. "Maya... I told you... to stay in the cellar..."
"Shut up!" Maya shouted, her professional instincts taking over instantly.
She ripped open his white shirt, inspecting the wound. A bullet had entered his lower right abdomen, missing his spine but tearing through major muscle tissue. Blood was pooling rapidly beneath him on the carpet.
"Frank!" she screamed into the dark house. "Is anyone here?!"
No answer came. The guards outside were either dead, wounded, or pursuing the remaining attackers into the woods.
"I have to stop the bleeding," Maya whispered to herself, her veterinary surgical training kicking in with cold, absolute precision. "I have to close the artery."
She sprinted to the nearby washroom, grabbing a stack of clean white linen towels, a bottle of high-proof grain alcohol from the bar, and a set of sharp silver cigar scissors from the desk.
She returned to Raphael’s side, kneeling in his blood.
"This is going to hurt," she warned him, her voice trembling slightly, but her hands remaining completely steady. "I need you to stay conscious, Raphael. Look at me. Keep your eyes on me."
Raphael looked into her brown eyes, gripping her left hand with a crushing, desperate force. "I'm looking... at you..."
Maya poured the alcohol directly over the wound to sanitize the area, causing Raphael to gasp in agonizing pain, his body tensing like iron. Without hesitating, Maya folded a thick linen towel, pressed it directly into the entry point, and applied maximum pressure with her full body weight, using her knees to stabilize his torso.
"Hold on, Raphael," she whispered, her face inches from his. "You saved me sixteen years ago through my father. You don't get to die in this room today."
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Raphael stared at her through the haze of agony, his dark eyes locking onto hers with profound, unwavering intensity. "I'm not... going anywhere... David's daughter..."
For forty-five minutes, in the dim, ruined study illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through shattered windows, Maya held pressure on the wound, monitoring his pulse, stopping the hemorrhage inch by inch until the heavy sound of medical helicopters roared over the pine trees outside.
