"Signora, you need to be in that vault," Dante argues, matching my frantic pace as we rush toward the sweeping glass staircase. Gunfire is already echoing from the east wing, a rapid, terrifying staccato of automatic weapons. "My orders from the Don were to keep you breathing."
"And my orders were to burn it all down if they try to take this house," I snap back, shooting him a glare that leaves no room for debate. "I am the Lady of the Vellutini family. I do not hide in a basement while my husband's men bleed on my floors. Move!"
Dante doesn't argue again. We hit the second-floor landing just as Carla comes sprinting out of the servant's corridor, sobbing hysterically, followed by three terrified maids.
"Signora!" Carla cries, her face streaked with tears. "They are shooting through the kitchen windows!"
"Carla, look at me," I command, grabbing the older woman by her shoulders. I give her a firm shake, forcing her panic-stricken eyes to meet mine. "You take the girls down the service stairs to the vault. You lock the heavy door, and you do not open it for anyone unless you hear my voice or Dante's voice. Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes, God preserve us," she weeps, nodding frantically.
"Go!" I push her toward the access door.
Once the staff is out of sight, Dante and I take cover behind the thick marble balustrade overlooking the grand foyer. The temporary wooden barricades that were erected after the last attack are already splintering under a relentless hail of bullets.
The front doors groan and finally give way, blown off their hinges by a secondary charge.
A dozen masked men flood into the foyer. They wear dark tactical gear, their boots crunching over the debris. They aren't Italians. The guttural shouts echoing in the cavernous space belong to the Bratva mercenaries.
"Light them up!" Dante roars into his radio.
The ten guards we have stationed on the ground floor open fire from behind overturned tables and reinforced pillars. The noise is instantly deafening, a chaotic, suffocating symphony of destruction. Plaster dust fills the air, choking my lungs and stinging my eyes.
I crouch behind the marble railing, my heart hammering a frantic, bruising rhythm against my ribs. My hands are shaking. The sheer, overwhelming violence of the moment threatens to paralyze me.
But then I think of Cassio.
I think of the agonizing pain in his eyes when he told me he hated the idea of anyone else having me. I think of the blood soaking his white shirt, the sacrifice he made without a single second of hesitation. He gave me a home. He gave me an empire. He gave me a purpose.
I grip the Glock with both hands, my knuckles turning white. I squeeze my eyes shut for one brief second, inhaling the scent of sulfur and dust, and then I push myself up.
I rest my arms over the marble railing, aiming down into the chaotic mass of mercenaries flooding the foyer.
I don't look at their faces. I don't think about the morality of pulling a trigger. I align the sights on the chest of a massive Russian raising an assault rifle toward Dante’s position, and I squeeze.
The recoil snaps my wrists back, the loudcrackof the handgun vibrating up my arms.
The man jolts backward, dropping his rifle as he crumples to the marble floor.
I swallow a scream, my stomach heaving with a sudden, violent surge of nausea. I just took a life. The reality of it hits me like a freight train, cold and heavy. But before the shock can fully set in, another mercenary spots the muzzle flash from the balcony.
"Upstairs!" the Russian shouts, leveling his weapon.
Bullets chip away at the marble balustrade inches from my face. I duck down hard, covering my head as stone fragments rain over my burgundy suit.
"Signora, keep your head down!" Dante yells, firing a continuous burst from his M4 to suppress the men advancing on the staircase.
"They are trying to flank the stairs!" I shout back, my voice hoarse.
I push myself up again, ignoring the trembling in my legs. I fire twice more, my shots less precise but enough to force two mercenaries to dive behind a shattered pillar. I am not a trained killer, but I have the high ground, and I have a desperate need to protect this house.
The firefight rages on, minute after agonizing minute. The air grows thick with smoke, the emergency lights cast grotesque, dancing shadows across the blood-stained walls. Our guards are holding the line, fighting with the ferocious, stubborn pride of men defending their territory, but we are outnumbered.
A heavy, suffocating dread begins to curl in my gut.
I eject the spent magazine from my Glock, my hands fumbling slightly as I slam a fresh one into the grip. I rack the slide, my chest heaving.
Why am I doing this?