Chapter 3 - The Ambush at the Gates
The shockwave knocked Julian against the brick wall. Overhead, the chandeliers of the upper floor could be heard shattering into thousands of pieces, followed instantly by the staccato bark of high-caliber automatic gunfire.
“They’re at the perimeter!” Julian roared, pulling a tactical radio from his vest. “Bravo team, report! Report!”
Static screeched through the speaker, followed by frantic shouting: *“Boss! It’s Marcus Voss! He’s brought three armored trucks through the north gate! They’re breaching the front foyer! They knew the security rotation!”*
Vincent shielded his mother with his own body, his eyes flashing toward Clara. In that moment of catastrophic violence, Clara didn't scream. She didn't cower. Instead, her eyes went wide with pure maternal instinct.
“Toby!” she cried out, already sprinting toward the cellar stairs. “Toby is upstairs with Dominic!”
“Clara, wait!” Vincent barked, but she was already bounding up the stone steps.
Cursing violently, Vincent shoved his mother into Julian’s arms. “Take her through the subterranean escape tunnel to the boathouse! Do not stop for anything! If a single scratch touches my mother, Julian, I will skin you alive!”
“Understood, Boss! What about you?”
“I’m getting my son. And the girl.”
Vincent drew a custom matte-black 1911 pistol from his shoulder holster, racked the slide, and charged up the stairs behind Clara.
The main floor of Hale Manor had descended into an abattoir.
Where moments ago wealthy guests in tuxedoes and evening gowns had sipped vintage champagne, smoke now rolled thick across the marble floor. Broken glass, overturned banquet tables, and bloodstains covered the grand hall. Guests were cowering under furniture, while Vincent’s loyal soldiers traded frantic bursts of gunfire with heavily armed mercenaries wearing tactical vests bearing the Voss crest.
Rosalind was no longer on the floor. She had scrambled to the edge of the grand staircase, where a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scarred jaw—her older brother, Marcus Voss—was leading a squad of eight commandos into the foyer.
“Rosalind! Get down here!” Marcus shouted, firing a burst from his submachine gun into the ceiling to suppress Hale’s guards. “Where is the old woman’s signature? Did she sign the transfer deed?”
“No! That damned maid ruined it!” Rosalind screamed, pointing frantically toward the dining hall. “The maid served the cookies! Vincent knows everything!”
At that moment, from the top of the sweeping imperial staircase, a small, terrified voice broke through the gunfire: “Daddy! Clara!”
Clara, who had slipped through the service corridors to reach the second-floor mezzanine, burst onto the landing just as Dominic, Vincent’s lieutenant, collapsed against the banister, clutching a bleeding gunshot wound to his shoulder.
Beside Dominic stood Toby, tears streaming down his face, clutching a worn teddy bear.
“Toby!” Clara lunged forward, throwing her arms around the little boy and pulling him down to the floor just as a hail of bullets tore through the plaster above their heads.
Marcus Voss looked up, his predatory eyes locking onto Clara and the child.
“Forget the old woman!” Marcus bellowed to his men. “Take the kid! Hale will sign over the entire syndicate territory if we have his bloodline!”
Two Voss mercenaries charged up the stairs, their boots thudding against the blood-slick marble.
Clara looked around frantically. Dominic was slipping out of consciousness, his gun lying three feet away on the polished parquet floor. The mercenaries were ten steps away, their rifles raised.
Without hesitating, Clara pushed Toby behind a marble pillar. “Toby, close your eyes and cover your ears. Don't look, baby. Don't look.”
Clara dove across the floor, her hands grasping the cold steel of Dominic’s fallen pistol. She had never fired a weapon in her life, but her father had been a country hunter before he passed, and instinct took the wheel. She spun on her back, raised the heavy pistol with both hands, and pulled the trigger.
*BANG!*
The recoil violently kicked her wrists back, but the bullet tore through the leading mercenary’s knee. The man howled, tumbling backward down the stairs.
The second mercenary raised his rifle, aiming directly at Clara’s chest. “Drop it, bitch—”
*BANG. BANG.*
Two rounds struck the second mercenary squarely in the chest. He pitched forward over the banister, crashing onto the dining table below.
Vincent Hale appeared at the foot of the stairs like an avenging demon. His suit jacket was discarded, his crisp white dress shirt stained with gunsmoke and blood, his eyes burning with lethal precision. He fired two more shots, cutting down another Voss intruder who tried to flank him, before sprinting up the stairs two at a time.
He reached the landing and dropped to his knees beside Clara, wrapping one massive arm around her and Toby simultaneously.
“Are you hit?” Vincent demanded, his hands frantically checking Clara’s shoulders, her ribs, her waist. “Clara! Did they hit you?”
Clara was trembling violently, the empty gun slipping from her numb fingers. She looked into Vincent’s frantic eyes and shook her head. “No... no. Toby is safe. I kept him safe.”
Toby buried his face in Clara’s neck, sobbing hysterically. “Clara! Daddy!”
Vincent pulled them both into an embrace so tight Clara could feel the thunderous pounding of his heart against her cheek. For three long seconds, in the middle of a warzone, the terrifying mafia boss held a scullery maid and his child as if they were the only treasures left in the universe.
“You protected my son,” Vincent whispered against her hair, his voice thick with a raw emotion she had never heard in him before. “I swear on my life, Clara... no one will ever touch you again.”
Then, the cold reality of battle returned.
Down in the foyer, Marcus Voss’s voice echoed like a venomous whip: “Hale! Look at the courtyard monitors! We have twenty more men encircling this manor! Give me the boy, and I let you walk away with your life!”
Vincent slowly released Clara, rising to his full height. The gentleness in his eyes vanished, replaced by the face of a king preparing to butcher an entire bloodline.
“Clara,” Vincent ordered softly, pulling a spare revolver from his ankle holster and placing it in her hands. “Take Toby into the master panic room. Lock the vault from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me.”
“Vincent...” Clara whispered, her hand involuntarily grasping his sleeve. Her heart clenched with sudden, desperate fear for him. “Be careful. Please.”
Vincent looked down at her small hand gripping his arm. A razor-thin, dangerous smile touched his lips.
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“Don’t worry, little bird,” Vincent murmured, gently tracing her cheek with his thumb. “Tonight, I paint this city red for you.”
***