Chapter 6 - THE CRUMBLED WING
I drove thirty miles of highway in fourteen minutes.
The engine of my armored Mercedes roared like a wounded animal.
Tires screeched against wet pavement as I blew past every toll barrier, ignoring sirens and flashing signs.
My mind was a terrifying vortex of burning nursery curtains and small voices crying in the dark.
Take one brave step toward the moon.
Claire’s voice echoed in my head.
I couldn't lose them.
I had conquered five boroughs of New York with blood and iron, but without those little girls, I was nothing but dust.
I reached the estate gates at 5:02 AM.
The wrought-iron gates were twisted off their stone hinges.
Smoke poured into the dawn sky, thick, black, and smelling of diesel and high explosives.
The entire west wing of the manor had collapsed into a pile of smoking brick and shattered timber.
Flames licked the edges of the first-floor windows.
Two black Suburbans were idling near the circular fountain, doors thrown open.
Three bodies lay on the gravel—guards loyal to me, shot at point-blank range.
I drew my Sig Sauer and kicked my car door open.
Rain mixed with ash stung my face.
A figure emerged from the smoke near the stables.
It was Hannah.
Her hair was singed, her face blackened by soot, and her white apron was soaked in dark crimson blood.
She was carrying Chloe on her back, tied securely with a torn bedsheet.
In her arms, clutched tightly against her ribs, was Claire.
Claire was coughing, but her eyes were open, wide with shock.
Hannah was limping heavily, her right leg dragging behind her.
"Hannah!" I roared, sprinting across the lawn.
She saw me and collapsed onto her knees in the wet grass.
I slid on the mud, catching all three of them in my arms.
"I have you," I choked out, wrapping my coat around them.
"I have you."
Claire reached out a tiny, soot-covered hand and touched my jaw.
"Daddy," she whimpered softly.
"We walked away from the bad fire. Hannah carried us, but then I took four steps."
Tears, hot and unstoppable, blurred my vision.
I kissed Claire’s forehead, then Chloe’s cheek.
"You're safe, baby. Daddy is here."
Hannah breathed heavily against my chest, her pulse racing like a humming bird.
"Marcus had seven men," Hannah gasped, pain tightening her features.
"He took the central vault documents. He was looking for the girls."
"Where is he?"
Hannah pointed a trembling finger toward the underground wine cellar entrance beneath the north terrace.
"He went below to blow the foundation columns," she said, coughing up smoke.
"He wants to level the entire house so nothing remains."
I looked at the deep gash across Hannah’s thigh.
A piece of jagged shrapnel was embedded in her flesh.
"You took shrapnel for them," I whispered.
"They're Elena’s babies, Damian," she whispered back, her voice breaking.
"I promised her I would never let them burn."
The words struck me like a physical blow.
"You knew Elena?"
"I was the triage nurse the night she was shot," Hannah revealed, tears cutting through the soot on her cheeks.
"She died holding my hand in the ambulance."
"Her last words were: Find my girls. Don't let the darkness take them."
Hannah squeezed my forearm with her bloody fingers.
"Go finish it, Damian."
"End this."
I stood up.
The grief, the rage, the three years of lies—it all calcified into absolute, merciless purpose.
"Dominic!" I bellowed.
Dominic’s SUV skidded onto the gravel driveway.
"Take the girls and Hannah to the safehouse in Greenwich," I commanded.
"Don't stop for anything."
May you like
I turned my back on the burning house and walked straight into the dark mouth of the cellar.
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