Chapter 3 - THE EAST WING ASSAULT
The house erupted into chaos.
"AMBUSH!" Frankie yelled, shoving Paulie toward the floor as automatic gunfire began to chew through the outer stone walls of the mansion.
My mind didn't go to the syndicate. It didn't go to Matty bleeding onto the dining table. It flew straight to the east wing—to the private panic suite where Grace Bennett was holding my three little girls.
I didn't draw my gun; I already had it in my hand as I sprinted out of the dining room, my leather dress shoes skidding on the polished floorboards.
Through the smoke filling the grand foyer, I saw four men in tactical black gear breaking through the double French doors of the patio. They weren't street thugs from the Valetti crew; they moved with military precision, automatic carbines raised, sweeping the hall.
Putt. Putt. Putt.
My suppressed Sig Sauer barked three times. The lead operative crumpled to the floor, his helmet bouncing off the marble stairs. I dove behind the central marble statue of Venus, firing two more rounds that caught the second man in the throat.
"Frankie! Cover the main staircase!" I screamed over the deafening alarm.
"I got it! Go!" Frankie shouted back, firing heavy .45 caliber rounds down the corridor to keep the remaining shooters pinned against the archway.
I didn't wait. I turned and sprinted up the service stairs toward the east wing.
The heavy steel reinforced door of the guest wing was closed, but the digital lock had been smashed—someone on the inside had cut the power grid to the upper level.
"GRACE!" I roared, throwing my shoulder against the heavy oak door.
It burst open.
Inside, the room was plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the frantic strobing red lights of the emergency backup generators.
In the corner of the room, behind a heavy oak desk, stood Grace.
She was shaking violently, her hair wild, her clothes damp with sweat. In her small hands, she was holding a heavy antique brass fireplace poker like a baseball bat. Behind her, tucked into a small hidden linen closet, my three daughters were huddling together under a pile of blankets, their hands clamped over their ears.
On the floor three feet from Grace lay an armed tactical shooter, unconscious, his head bleeding profusely where Grace had struck him with the heavy brass rod.
I stopped in my tracks, my breathing ragged, my gun raised.
Grace looked at me through the strobing red light, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
"They... they came through the balcony window," she sobbed, her voice trembling, but her stance never softening. "I didn't let them touch them, Mr. Romano. I swore to you... I wouldn't let them touch your girls."
I looked at the unconscious intruder, then at Grace, and finally at my daughters.
Olivia slipped out from beneath the blankets. She didn't look at the dead air of the mansion, nor at the smoke rising from the hallway. She ran straight toward Grace, wrapping her small arms around Grace's waist.
Then, seven-year-old Olivia looked up at me—the first time she had held my gaze in fourteen months.
"Daddy," Olivia whispered, her small voice cutting through the ringing alarms like a church bell. "Protect Miss Grace."
The world froze around me.
My knees almost gave out right there on the carpet. "Olivia..."
"Don't let them take her," Olivia wept, her little fingers digging into Grace's apron. "She promised Mommy wouldn't come back if we stayed quiet... but the bad men are here."
The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity.
The trauma hadn't just been grief. The night Isabelle died, someone had told my daughters that if they ever spoke a word about what they saw, the men would come back to finish the job. They had stayed silent for fourteen long months to protect me. They had lived in a prison of fear to keep their father alive.
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And Grace Bennett had been the only person who listened closely enough to break the lock on their cage.
"No one is taking anyone," I swore, stepping over the fallen shooter and dropping to one knee in front of Grace and my children. I looked up into Grace’s terrified brown eyes. "You saved my family tonight, Grace. Now watch how I burn the men who did this."
