Chapter 4 - THE GLASS IN THE GARDEN
Dante tackled Elena to the floor behind the heavy leather chesterfield.
The room smelled of sulfur, pulverized wood, and freezing lake air.
Glass rained down in crystalline sheets.
High-velocity rounds tore through rows of first-edition books above their heads.
Paper fluttered down like black-and-white snow.
Dante reached into his vest.
He pulled a tactical phosphorus grenade from his pocket.
"Cover your eyes," Dante commanded into her ear.
Elena pressed her face against the cold oak floorboards, hands over her temples.
Dante pulled the pin with his teeth and rolled the canister onto the terrace.
A blinding flash of purple-white light stripped the night of shadows.
A thunderous bang shook the chandeliers downstairs.
Screams of pain erupted from the balcony.
Two mercenaries dropped their rifles, clutching their burned retinas.
Dante rose like an avenging shadow.
Two controlled shots.
Two heavy thuds against the flagstones outside.
The garden went silent.
Only the sound of the rain against the broken glass remained.
Dante breathed hard through his nose.
A streak of dark red ran down his right forearm, soaking his white cuff.
A shrapnel wound from the window frame.
Elena scrambled to her knees beside him.
She didn't ask permission.
She ripped the white cotton sash from her maid’s apron.
Her fingers were remarkably steady as she wrapped the fabric tightly around his bleeding forearm.
She pulled the knot taut with her teeth.
Dante watched her face in the moonlight.
He watched the furrow of her brow.
The fierce, quiet determination in her dark eyes.
She wasn't screaming.
She wasn't hysterical like Vanessa.
She was surviving.
"You've patched wounds before," Dante noted softly.
"My brother died of leukemia when I was twelve," Elena replied without looking up.
"My mother worked three jobs."
"You learn how to stop bleeding when you can't afford an ambulance."
Dante’s hand reached out.
His knuckles gently brushed the side of her neck.
His skin was burning hot against her cold flesh.
"I won't let them hurt her, Elena."
"I swear it on my family's name."
Marcus appeared at the shattered terrace doors, his rifle raised.
His face was streaked with soot.
"The perimeter is clear, Mr. Moretti."
"We found two more shooters near the greenhouse."
"Both carried contract credentials from Vanguard Security."
"Richard Whitmore's private mercenary firm," Dante said, standing up.
He pulled Elena up with him, keeping his arm firmly around her waist.
"Where is the van?"
"Headed south toward the old railyards," Marcus said.
"And Saint Jude’s?" Elena gasped, grabbing Marcus’s sleeve.
Marcus looked at her with grave eyes.
"Team three arrived at the hospital four minutes ago, Miss Morales."
Elena’s heart stopped.
"Is she safe?"
Marcus looked down at his boots.
"Your mother’s room was empty."
Elena’s hand fell from his sleeve.
The world seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
"No..." she whimpered.
"They took her ten minutes before our men breached the lobby," Marcus continued quietly.
"They left a phone on the pillow."
Marcus pulled a burner phone from his pocket and handed it to Dante.
Dante hit the power button.
A video message loaded on the cracked display.
Richard Whitmore sat behind a steel desk in an unfinished concrete basement.
Behind him, tied to a wheelchair, sat Clara Morales.
Her breathing was shallow, an empty IV line dangling from her arm.
Richard looked into the camera with cold, aristocratic satisfaction.
"Good evening, Dante," Richard spoke.
"If you want this woman to receive her dialysis at dawn..."
"Bring the key from Lorenzo’s music box to Pier 42."
May you like
"Alone."
"Or your little maid will bury her mother in an unmarked grave."
