Chapter 8 - SIEGE IN THE SKY
The heavy glass terrace doors shattered inward in an explosion of crystalline shrapnel.
Flashbang grenades detonated with concussive, ear-splitting roars.
Blinding white light and choking phosphorus smoke flooded the library.
Clara threw herself flat across the bassinet, shielding Oliver and Owen with her entire body.
The concussive shockwave slammed into her back like a physical hammer blow.
Ears ringing violently, she buried her face in the silk blankets, whispering prayers against the boys' hair.
Through the blinding smoke, Damian moved like a demon unleashed.
His pistol barked three rapid, thunderous times.
A masked shooter tumbling through the broken glass fell backward over the balcony railing, plunging forty stories into the dark abyss.
“Marco! Secure the safe room!” Damian roared over the deafening rattle of automatic gunfire.
Bullets shredded the antique mahogany bookshelves.
Leather-bound books exploded into clouds of confetti and white plaster dust.
Marco was kneeling behind the marble desk, firing short, controlled bursts from his submachine gun.
“They cut the hydraulic lines to the panic room, boss!” Marco yelled back, coughing on the chemical smoke.
“The steel doors are dead in their tracks!”
“The service elevator!” Damian commanded.
He lunged across the exposed floorboards, grabbing Clara by the elbow with iron strength.
He hauled her and the portable bassinet upward in one fluid, terrifying movement.
“Keep your head between my shoulder blades, Clara!” Damian ordered into her ear.
Two shooters in black tactical gear burst through the smoke near the library entrance.
Damian didn't even pause.
He raised his weapon one-handed, firing twice with pinpoint, lethal precision.
Both men dropped like stones onto the ruined carpet.
Damian kicked open the concealed service door behind the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
The private service elevator stood open, illuminated only by its amber maintenance beacon.
He shoved Clara and the bassinet inside.
“Marco! Move!” Damian shouted down the smoke-filled corridor.
Marco staggered toward the elevator, bleeding heavily from a wound in his thigh.
Behind him, three more mercenaries stepped through the shattered terrace doors, raising automatic shotguns.
Marco dove into the elevator car, hitting the floor hard.
Damian hit the emergency express descent button.
The heavy steel doors slid shut just as a hail of shotgun pellets dented the reinforced metal exterior with loud, violent clangs.
The elevator dropped like a stone down the high-speed shaft.
The sudden gravity drop made Clara’s stomach lurch into her throat.
She sat on the metal floor of the car, clutching the bassinet against her chest.
Both babies were crying now, terrified by the deafening concussions.
“Shh, my sweet boys,” Clara whispered through chattering teeth, rocking them frantically.
“Clara’s here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Damian dropped to one knee beside Marco.
He tore off his own necktie, wrapping it around Marco’s bleeding thigh as a crude tourniquet.
He twisted the fabric tight with his pen, stemming the arterial flow.
“You’re going to make it, Marco,” Damian said grimly.
“Russo brought the whole southern syndicate, boss,” Marco wheezed, clenching his teeth against the pain.
“They want your head on a spike before the sun comes up.”
Damian didn't answer.
He checked the remaining ammunition in his magazine.
Four rounds left.
He reached down to Marco’s tactical vest, unholstering Marco’s spare Glock 19 and two fresh magazines.
The digital elevator floor indicator flashed downward at terrifying speed:
30... 20... 10... SUB-BASEMENT 2.
The elevator came to a smooth, hydraulic stop.
The doors opened onto the private subterranean parking bunker beneath the tower.
Fluorescent lights hummed over rows of polished concrete and armored vehicles.
Waiting in the center of the garage was an armored black military-grade SUV—a Terradyne Gurkha.
Its heavy diesel engine was already idling, rumbling like a caged beast.
Sitting behind the wheel was Luca, one of Damian’s most trusted drivers, holding an assault rifle across his lap.
“Boss! Get in!” Luca yelled, kicking open the heavy armored passenger door.
Damian hauled Marco to his feet, shoving him onto the rear bench seat.
He turned to Clara.
He lifted her and the bassinet into the cabin, securing the safety harnesses around the babies with swift, trembling fingers.
Damian climbed in right behind her, slamming the six-hundred-pound ballistic door shut.
“Take the harbor expressway,” Damian ordered Luca.
“The estate in the Berkshires.”
Luca slammed the transmission into gear.
The heavy armored vehicle surged forward, smashing through the underground security gates into the rainy Boston night.
Tires screeched as they hit the wet highway.
Clara leaned back against the reinforced steel door, panting, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
Damian turned to look at her in the dim cabin light.
His face was streaked with soot and blood.
He reached out, his calloused palm cupping the back of her head, pulling her gently toward him.
He pressed his forehead against hers.
His breath was ragged.
His pulse was racing.
“Are you hurt, Clara?” he whispered against her skin.
“No,” she choked out, tears finally breaking past her eyelashes.
“The boys?”
“They’re safe, Damian.”
Damian closed his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.
He pulled her into his arms, wrapping his broad frame around her like an impenetrable fortress.
Clara buried her face in his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of rain, cedar, and raw survival.
She didn't care that he was a mafia boss.
She didn't care that the world outside was burning.
In his arms, she felt safer than she had ever felt in her entire life.
Suddenly, Luca cursed violently from the front seat.
“Boss! Look ahead!”
Clara pulled back, looking through the thick bulletproof windshield.
The harbor expressway bridge was completely blocked.
Three commercial semi-trucks had jackknifed across all four lanes, blocking the exit.
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And stepping out from behind the steel shipping containers were twenty men carrying heavy assault weapons.
Standing in the center of the bridge, holding an RPG launcher rested on his shoulder, was Salvatore Russo.
