Chapter 8 - Blood on the Marble
Inside the darkness of the panic room, the sound of gunfire was deafening.
Gunshots tore through drywall and shattered decorative glass. The concussive blasts reverberated through the steel walls, each shot sending a spike of terror through my heart. I sat curled on the floor, my hands pressed tightly over my ears, praying desperately for Dante’s survival.
I could hear the distinct, rhythmic cadence of Dante’s shooting—controlled, precise, lethal—contrasted with the frantic, spray-and-pray firing of Vance’s mercenaries.
Shouts. Curses. The sickening sound of bodies hitting the floor.
Then, a sudden, horrifying silence descended upon the penthouse.
The gunfire stopped.
The only sound left was the distant hiss of a ruptured sprinkler pipe and the patter of water against the hardwood.
“Dante?” I whispered into the darkness, my heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the rain.
Nothing.
Seconds stretched into agonizing eternities.
Then came the slow, dragging sound of footsteps approaching the study desk.
My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the seam of the panic door, my hands trembling. Had Vance won? Was he standing on the other side, waiting to finish what he started in that alley?
Click.
The electronic override sequence beeped three times.
The heavy titanium door swung open.
The crimson emergency lights revealed Dante standing in the doorway.
His shirt was torn and stained with blood, his face smudged with gunpowder, and a shallow cut ran across his left cheekbone. In his right hand, he held a smoking pistol.
Behind him, the hallway was a ruined battlefield of shattered glass and motionless figures.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then Dante dropped his weapon, fell to his knees in front of the open door, and pulled me into his arms.
“It’s over,” he rasped, burying his face in my hair, his body trembling with the aftershocks of lethal combat. “You’re safe. Harper... you’re safe.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, sobbing against his shoulder, unmindful of the blood and dirt on his clothes.
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“You’re hurt,” I cried, touching the cut on his cheek.
“It’s not my blood,” he whispered, pulling back to cup my face in both hands. His hazel eyes were wild, fierce, and overflowing with an emotion so raw it took my breath away. “Vance is gone. His men are neutralized. Nobody will ever threaten you again.”
