Chapter 10 - Blood and Ice
"Get behind me, Leo," I whispered, stepping smoothly between the barrel of the gun and the little boy.
Leo didn't cry. The absolute, unnatural silence of a terrified child washed over him. He gripped the hem of my jeans, burying his face into the back of my legs.
"Give me the locket, Clara," Vincent said, taking a slow step forward. "Elena was too clever for her own good. She spent six months snooping through my ledgers before I had to cut her brake lines on Route 9. A shame, really. She was a beautiful woman."
"You murdered the mother of a three-year-old child," I said, stalling, my eyes frantically searching the gallery for anything—a heavy vase, a bronze statue, an alarm switch.
"I secured my future," Vincent sneered. "Ricardo is going soft. First Elena making him question the syndicate's methods, and now you, turning his heir into a soft-hearted weakling who plays with leaves in the fountain. The Rossi family offered me forty percent of the northern territory to clear the board. Ricardo dies tonight. But you and the boy? You die right now."
He raised the pistol, lining the sights up with my forehead.
I didn't think. I reacted with the primal, unthinking ferocity of a mother whose child was about to be slaughtered.
I snatched a solid marble bust of Caesar from the pedestal beside me and hurled it with all my strength straight at his face.
Vincent dodged instinctively, but the heavy stone clipped his shoulder with a sickening crack.
*Pffft!*
The silenced gun spat once. A bullet tore through the air, shattering the glass vitrine behind me into a million sparkling shards.
"Run, Leo!" I screamed, lunging forward like a wild animal.
I slammed into Vincent's chest before he could steady his aim, driving him backward into an antique mahogany desk. We crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and splintering wood. His gun went skittering across the polished parquet floor.
Vincent roared in fury, throwing a heavy punch that caught me across the cheekbone.
Pain exploded in stars behind my eyes, the taste of copper filling my mouth, but I didn't let go. I drove my thumbs into his eyes with everything I had.
He shrieked in agony, flailing wildly, his heavy hands closing around my throat. The air was cut off instantly. Darkness began to creep into the edges of my vision.
*No,* I thought desperately. *Not Leo. I won't let him lose another mother.*
Through the haze, I saw Leo.
He hadn't run away.
The three-year-old boy had picked up a heavy silver candlestick from the broken display. With a tiny, guttural cry of pure rage, he slammed it down onto the back of Vincent's hand.
Vincent howled, his grip on my neck breaking for a split second.
It was all the time I needed.
The gallery doors didn't open. They were blown off their hinges with explosive force.
The heavy oak wood splintered inward, showering the room in dust and debris. Through the smoke stepped Ricardo Moretti.
His eyes weren't human. They were the eyes of an ancient, vengeful god.
In two strides, Ricardo crossed the room. He didn't use a gun. He grabbed Vincent by the throat with one hand, lifting the two-hundred-pound man completely off the floor, and slammed him spine-first into the stone fireplace.
"You touched her," Ricardo whispered. The sound wasn't loud, but it rattled the glass in the remaining cabinets. "You raised a hand to my son's protector."
"Ricardo... wait... the Rossis..." Vincent choked out, his heels kicking uselessly against the stones.
Ricardo didn't wait. He didn't negotiate.
With a brutal, lightning-fast motion, he drove a combat knife directly through Vincent’s throat, pinning him to the mantelpiece like an insect.
Vincent’s eyes rolled back. Blood poured down the stone, his body going limp in seconds.
Ricardo let go. The traitor slumped into a heap on the hearth.
Ricardo turned slowly. His suit was covered in plaster dust and fresh blood. His chest heaved.
I was on my knees, coughing violently, dragging Leo into my arms. Leo was trembling so hard his teeth were chattering, but he wasn't crying. He held the silver locket tightly in his tiny fist, holding it up toward his father.
Ricardo fell to his knees in front of us.
He reached out with trembling, blood-stained hands, hovering over me, afraid to touch my bruised neck, afraid he would break what was left.
"Clara," he choked out, his voice cracking for the first time in his life. "Clara..."
"We're alive," I gasped out through my bruised throat, resting my forehead against his broad, trembling shoulder. "We're alive, Ricardo."
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He pulled both of us into his arms, crushing us against his chest, burying his face into my hair while his armies swarmed into the room around us.
***