Chapter 9 - The Siege of Ravenwood
The peace didn't last.
On Christmas Eve, the storm hit with full fury. A blizzard swept off Lake Michigan, blinding the security cameras and dumping heavy drifts against the perimeter fences. The wind shrieked through the eaves of the estate like a chorus of dying men.
At 11:30 PM, the power went out.
The mansion plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness. A second later, the backup generators kicked on with a low, vibrating thrum, casting the hallways in the eerie amber glow of emergency floodlights.
Then came the explosions.
Two perimeter guard shacks detonated simultaneously, sending tremors through the stone foundations. The heavy plate-glass windows in the upper conservatory shattered under the impact of high-caliber sniper fire.
“Breach at the south gate!” Dante’s voice roared through the tactical radios scattered across the kitchen counters. “They cut the fence! It’s Moretti! They brought fifty men! Fall back to the main house! Fall back!”
Screams, gunfire, and the deafening roar of automatic weapons tore through the freezing night air.
The kitchen doors burst open. Marco stumbled inside, his face smeared with soot, his shoulder bleeding freely. “Ma! You need to get down to the panic room in the cellar! Now! They’re inside the perimeter!”
“Where’s Roman?” I demanded, grabbing a heavy wool blanket and throwing it over Marco’s shivering frame.
“He’s pinned down in the west wing with Vincent and four guards!” Marco yelled over the sound of breaking wood and shattering glass upstairs. “They’re trying to flank him through the service corridors! Ma, please, you have to run!”
I looked around my kitchen.
The copper pots were shining on the racks. The smell of fresh gingerbread and roasted prime rib from tomorrow’s planned feast still lingered in the air. This place was no longer a fortress belonging to a mafia boss. It was my home. These broken, violent men were my family.
“Nobody burns down my kitchen,” I whispered.
I turned to the commercial range. On the back burners sat four massive stockpots of boiling peanut oil, kept at three hundred and seventy-five degrees for the holiday frying prep. Next to them were six cast-iron Dutch ovens filled with scalding water and lye solution used for cleaning heavy grill grates.
“Marco,” I said, turning to the young hitman with a look that made him take a step back. “Can you lift twenty pounds with your good arm?”
He swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah… yeah, Ma.”
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“Grab the fire extinguisher by the pantry. When those doors open, you blind them. I’ll handle the rest.”
***