"Cassio, stop!" Noemi shouts, her hands grabbing my uninjured shoulder, trying to force me back down against the pillows. "You’re going to rip the stitches! You’ll bleed out!"
"I am not dying in a fucking bed," I snarl, shoving her hands gently away.
I force myself to stand. The room spins dizzily, gravity pulling at the heavy, thick bandages wrapped tightly around my ribs. A fresh, warm dampness begins to bloom over my right pectoral. I’m already bleeding again. I don't give a shit.
I look at Matteo. The underboss is pressed against the heavy oak door, peering through a crack into the west wing corridor, his assault rifle raised.
"Sitrep," I bark. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug, and right now, it is the only thing keeping me upright.
"Twenty men, maybe more," Matteo reports. "They blew the lower gates with a truck and hit the front doors with explosives. Dante has a fireteam holding the main staircase, but the Russians are pushing hard. They’ve got heavy artillery, Boss. They came to wipe us out."
"They came for her," I correct grimly, my dark eyes snapping to Noemi.
She is standing by the bed, wearing my oversized t-shirt, her dark hair a wild mess. But she isn't screaming. She isn't cowering in the corner, weeping like a civilian. She grew up inthe Genovese household; she knows exactly what the sound of a mafia war tearing through the front door means.
"Matteo, toss me the rifle," I command.
"Boss, your shoulder—"
"Toss the fucking rifle!"
Matteo unslings a compact M4 carbine from his back and tosses it to me. I catch it with my left hand, the heavy weight of the weapon jarring my torso. I can't shoulder it properly on my right side, the torn muscle protests with a blinding spike of agony, so I tuck the stock under my left arm, awkwardly bracing it. It’s sloppy, but at close range, it will do the job.
"We don't stay in the bedroom," I state, moving toward the. "It’s a dead end. If they breach the corridor, they’ll trap us like rats. We hold the choke point at the top of the glass staircase. If they want to come up, they have to funnel through the landing."
I turn back to Noemi. I reach out, grabbing her by the back of the neck, and pull her hard against my uninjured side. I press a rough, desperate kiss to the crown of her head.
"You stay behind me," I order her. "You don't step out of my shadow. You don't let go of the back of my shirt. If I fall, you take my sidearm and you shoot anything that doesn't speak Italian. Understand?"
She doesn't hesitate. She reaches out and grips the fabric of my dark slacks at my hip. "I understand."
"Let’s move," I snap at Matteo.
Matteo kicks the heavy oak door wide open. We step out into the sprawling corridor of the west wing.
The air is already acrid with the metallic stench of cordite and pulverized drywall. The emergency backup lights have kicked on, bathing the hallway in a sickly, pulsing red glow. The deafening roar of the firefight downstairs sounds like a warzone. The Bratva are screaming commands in Russian, their heavy boots crunching over the shattered marble of my foyer.
We move fast. Every step I take sends a jarring shockwave of pain through my chest, but I lock it away in a dark box in the back of my mind.
We reach the balcony overlooking the grand foyer.
It’s an absolute slaughterhouse.
The massive crystal chandelier has been shot to pieces, raining glass down on the blood-soaked marble. Dante and five of my soldiers are barricaded behind overturned mahogany tables and marble pillars, raining suppressing fire down on the breach. But the Bratva are heavily armed, pushing forward with military precision, laying down a punishing wall of lead that is slowly chewing my men to pieces.
"Balcony!" one of the masked Russians roars, pointing up at us.
"Down!" I bark, shoving Noemi hard to the floor behind the thick marble balustrade just as a hail of bullets tears through the space where we were standing. The plaster wall behind us explodes into a cloud of white dust.
I drop to one knee, ignoring the agonizing, tearing sensation in my chest. I rest the barrel of the M4 over the edge of the marble railing, aiming with my left eye, and squeeze the trigger.
The rifle kicks violently against my side. The recoil is absolute torture, ripping at my fresh sutures, but my aim holds true. Two of the Russians pushing the base of the stairs drop instantly, their chests blown open by my burst.
Matteo opens up beside me, his rifle roaring as he lays down cover fire for Dante’s men below.
"They’re flanking the east wing!" Dante screams over the radio, his voice is barely audible over the gunfire. "They’re trying the service stairs!"
"Hold the main!" I roar back, dropping another Russian who tries to rush the steps.