Chapter 6 - Blood and Steel
"Three minutes," Dante repeated with a dark, humorless chuckle. He didn't look at the helicopter; his eyes were on me. He stepped close, his towering frame shielding both Sophia and me from the glare of the searchlights.
"Marco," Dante ordered calmly, never taking his eyes off my face. "Activate the blackout protocol. Shut down the eastern grid on this block."
"On it, Boss," Marco replied, tapping rapidly on a handheld device.
Dante reached out, his warm, rough hand cupping my cheek. His thumb wiped away a solitary tear I hadn't realized had slipped down my face. "Elena. Listen to me carefully."
"I'm listening," I said, leaning into his touch despite the chaos swirling outside.
"There is a reinforced escape elevator behind the wine cellar. It descends directly into the private subway spur beneath the building," Dante said, his voice deep and steady. "Marco will take you and Sophia. An armored vehicle is waiting at the lower tunnel. You take her to the safehouse in the Catskills."
"No," I said immediately, shaking my head. "No, Dante. I'm not leaving you behind to face an army."
"Elena—"
"You told me to be hers, and to be yours!" I insisted, stepping closer, my voice carrying a fierce defiance that surprised even myself. "Sophia needs her father. She didn't survive five years of running just to lose you five hours after finding you! We fight together, or we run together. But you are not dying here!"
Dante looked at me, stunned. In the violent, treacherous world of organized crime, loyalty was bought with gold or enforced with blood. He had never had someone stand beside him simply out of fierce, unconditional devotion. A flicker of raw wonder ignited in his eyes, followed by a surge of overwhelming pride.
"You are incredible," he whispered, his fingers tangling into my hair, pulling me toward him until his forehead rested against mine. "A lioness protecting her cub."
"Daddy!" Sophia cried as the helicopter's spotlights flashed across the room.
"Hold on to Elena, baby," Dante told her softly. Then he looked at Marco. "Change of plans. We aren't running. If Miller wants war on my doorstep, I'll give him an execution."
Marco grinned—a savage, wolfish grin. "Now you're talking."
"Blackout in three... two... one."
A high-pitched hum echoed through the building, and instantly, every single light in the penthouse—and across the entire four-block radius of the avenue below—snuffed out into pitch darkness. The helicopter's spotlight died as their electronics were momentarily scrambled by a localized EMP pulse emitted from the penthouse antennas.
"Move!" Dante commanded.
Gunfire erupted from the terrace windows. Heavy tactical rounds shattered the bullet-resistant glass, raining crystal shards across the floor. But Dante was already in motion. Moving with the speed and precision of a wraith, he opened fire with his dual-caliber pistol, the muzzle flashes illuminating his grim, magnificent silhouette against the darkness.
Two tactical operatives attempting to rappel onto the terrace were driven back. Marco and his men returned fire with suppressed submachine guns, laying down a devastating wall of suppression.
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Dante swept his arm around my waist, guiding Sophia and me toward the steel-reinforced door of the panic corridor. "Through here! Move!"
Bullets whined through the air, chewing into the priceless Italian art and plaster walls behind us. But Dante never faltered. He was our wall of iron, shielding our bodies with his own as the battle raged.