Chapter 3 - The Siege of the West Wing
On the third floor, the rain was deafening as it struck the skylights above the main corridor.
Claire stood near the window of the private study, holding Lily tightly against her chest. Outside, the distant pop of gunfire made her heart slam against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Mommy, is that firecrackers?" Lily asked, her small face buried in Claire's shoulder.
"Yes, baby," Claire lied, her voice cracking. "Just firecrackers for the wedding."
Suddenly, the lock on the heavy oak door clicked.
Claire froze. She looked around the room frantically—there were no secondary exits, only heavy bookshelves, a massive walnut desk, and a pair of tall glass doors leading to a narrow stone balcony overlooking the garden.
The door swung open.
Marcus Bell stepped inside, followed by two armed men dressed in dark suits. He was holding a silenced pistol at his side, his face entirely devoid of the warmth he had displayed for twelve years.
"Claire," Marcus said smoothly, as if he were simply asking for a cup of coffee. "Take the child and step away from the desk."
Claire backed away toward the balcony doors, her feet sliding across the Persian rug. "Mr. Bell... please. She doesn't know anything. She's just a little girl."
"She pulled the wrong thread, Claire," Marcus said, stepping closer, his shoes making a quiet thud against the carpet. "Twelve years I built this plan. Twelve years of sitting at Dominic’s table, smelling his cigars, listening to him act like a king while my father rots in an unmarked grave."
"Dominic trusts you!" Claire cried out, her back hitting the cold glass of the balcony door.
"Dominic is a blind prince who thinks apologies wipe away blood," Marcus sneered, raising the silenced weapon. "If your daughter had just stayed downstairs with her crayons, you'd both be alive tomorrow. But now... I can't have a maid telling the council that I was standing outside that room before the dress fell."
"Please," Claire begged, dropping to her knees, wrapping her body around Lily like an iron shield. "Kill me. Just let her go. Leave her in the woods. She won't say a word!"
Marcus looked down at them, his eyes cold and dead. "In this life, Claire, loose ends turn into ropes that hang you."
He raised the barrel directly toward the back of Claire's head.
BANG!
The heavy oak door didn't just open—it shattered inward off its hinges as Dominic Caruso burst into the room like a cannonball.
Before Marcus could turn his arm, Dominic grabbed Marcus's wrist, twisting it violently downward. The silenced pistol discharged harmlessly into the floorboards.
Dominic's left fist struck Marcus in the jaw with the force of a sledgehammer, sending the smaller man crashing over the walnut desk, scattering papers, crystal decanters, and leather folders across the floor.
The two mercenaries raised their weapons, but Ethan stepped through the shattered doorway, his shotgun barking twice in the tight space. The heavy rounds lifted both men off their feet, dropping them instantly into the hallway.
Dominic didn't pause. He grabbed Marcus by the lapels of his expensive wool suit, lifting him off the ground and slamming him against the heavy bookshelves.
"TWELVE YEARS, MARCUS!" Dominic roared, his voice shaking the glass in the windows. "I gave you my home! I gave you my family's legacy!"
Marcus spat blood onto Dominic's white shirt, a crazed, laughing sneer spreading across his broken face. "You... you gave me nothing! You took my father! You took my brother! You think a seat at your table makes us even?!"
"Your father was a traitor who sold our routes to the Bellandis!" Dominic snarled, his fingers digging into Marcus's throat.
"He was set up!" Marcus shrieked. "And you knew it! But you were too young, too eager to play the big Don, to care about the truth!"
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Dominic’s grip loosened for a fraction of a second, a shadow of ancient, unhealed guilt crossing his face.
Marcus used the moment. He pulled a hidden blade from his sleeve and drove it upward into Dominic's side.
