Chapter 5 - THE FINAL STAND
Frankie turned his head for a fraction of a second—just long enough for his eyes to register the shock of hearing my eldest daughter speak with such fierce authority.
That fraction of a second was all I needed.
I lunged forward, grabbing the barrel of Frankie’s revolver with my bare left hand just as he pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The heavy round tore through the fleshy part of my palm, burning like liquid fire, but I didn't stop. I slammed my right fist straight into Frankie’s jaw, throwing all two hundred and ten pounds of my weight into the strike.
Frankie stumbled back, hitting the heavy mahogany desk. We crashed onto the floor together, rolling across the Persian rug in a violent flurry of elbows, knees, and desperate strikes.
"GRACE! GET THEM OUT!" I roared, wrestling with Frankie’s gun hand as he tried to bring the barrel up toward my ribs.
Grace didn't freeze. She didn't scream. She threw my heavy wool overcoat over Olivia and Sophie, scooped up sleeping Nora, and pushed the two older girls ahead of her through the private side door leading to the master terrace.
"KILL HIM, DOMINIC!" Matty screamed from his chair, trying desperately to pull his tied hands free.
Frankie brought his knee up hard into my chest, knocking the air from my lungs, and managed to shove me off. He scrambled to his feet, blood pouring from his broken nose, his eyes wild with rage. He raised the gun directly at my face.
"You were always too soft for this seat, Dominic!" Frankie snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
THWACK.
A heavy crystal decanter smashed violently across the side of Frankie’s head.
He staggered sideways, his shot firing harmlessly into the ceiling plaster.
Standing behind him was Grace. She had come back. She stood holding the jagged neck of the broken crystal bottle, her eyes blazing with a fierce, unstoppable fury.
"Get away from him!" Grace screamed.
Frankie turned toward her, his face covered in blood, raising his weapon toward her chest. "You miserable little maid—"
I didn't give him the chance to finish the sentence. I pulled my secondary weapon—a small .38 snub-nosed revolver strapped to my ankle—and fired three consecutive rounds straight through Frankie Vane’s chest.
Frankie froze. The gun slipped from his fingers. He looked down at his ruined suit vest, then up at me, a look of profound disbelief in his dying eyes, before collapsing face-first onto the marble floor.
Silence returned to the room, broken only by the heavy, ragged sound of my breathing and the crackle of the fire.
I lay on my back for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warm blood dripping from my left hand.
Then, two soft hands touched my cheek.
Grace knelt beside me, tears falling freely down her face as she tore a strip from her cotton apron to bind my bleeding hand.
"You're hurt," she sobbed, her fingers trembling as she tied the makeshift bandage tight around my palm.
I looked up at her—at this extraordinary, courageous woman who had walked into my cold, lifeless home two months ago as a simple housekeeper and had fought like a lioness to save everything I held dear.
"Why did you come back?" I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "I told you to run."
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Grace paused, looking down into my eyes, her hand resting gently against my chest right over my beating heart.
"Because," Grace whispered softly, "your daughters aren't the only ones who need you, Dominic. And you aren't alone anymore."
