Chapter 9 - Ashes in the Wine Vault
A sniper round blasted through the reinforced glass.
The window shattered into spiderwebs of spidered crystal.
Alessandro tackled me off the sofa, shielding my body with his own.
A second round tore through the leather cushions right where my head had been.
Sirens inside the building began to screech.
Red emergency lights bathed the penthouse in a blood-colored glow.
“Down!” Alessandro roared.
He dragged me across the floor toward the reinforced panic room behind the
kitchen.
Smoke grenades smashed through the terrace windows.
Thick, blinding tear gas flooded the apartment.
My eyes burned violently.
I choked, unable to breathe.
Shadows dropped from ropes on the terrace.
Four men wearing night-vision goggles and tactical assault armor stormed the
living room.
They moved with military precision.
These weren't street thugs.
These were high-tier mercenaries.
Alessandro pulled his spare gun from a holster beneath the kitchen counter.
He fired blind through the smoke.
One mercenary dropped with a heavy thud.
The other three opened up on full-auto with silenced submachine guns.
The marble island exploded into thousands of stone fragments.
“Go into the vault!” Alessandro yelled, shoving me toward a steel door in the
pantry.
“I’m not leaving you!” I screamed, tears streaming down my stinging cheeks.
“Get inside, Sophie! The Broker wants you alive for the shipping codes!”
A heavy flashbang went off between us.
The explosion blew us apart.
I slammed hard against the pantry cabinets, my ears ringing violently.
Through the white smoke, a gloved hand grabbed my hair.
A mercenary hauled me to my feet, pressing a cold combat knife against my
throat.
“Drop the weapon, Moretti!” the mercenary yelled.
The smoke began to clear.
Alessandro was kneeling on the floor, bleeding from a shrapnel wound to his
temple.
His gun was raised, aiming directly at my captor’s eye.
“Let her go,” Alessandro snarled like a wounded wolf.
A man stepped out from the smoke behind the mercenaries.
He was tall, wearing an expensive bespoke charcoal overcoat and leather driving
gloves.
He pulled down his mask.
My blood turned to pure ice.
It was Étienne Dubois’s former diplomatic superior.
Ambassador Jean-Paul Vaneau.
The French delegate to the United Nations.
“Good evening, little Sophie,” Vaneau said with an elegant Parisian accent.
“Vaneau...” I gasped against the knife. “You framed my father!”
“Your father was an idiot, Sophie,” Vaneau sneered smoothly. “He thought
diplomacy was about peace.”
“Diplomacy is about controlling the flow of gold and guns between continents.”
He turned toward Alessandro.
“Alessandro Moretti. You should have stayed in Little Italy.”
“The Black Star was never your family’s playground.”
“It belongs to the French Directorate.”
Alessandro didn't flinch.
His gun stayed steady on the mercenary’s head.
“You won’t leave this building alive, Vaneau,” Alessandro growled.
“Oh, but I will,” Vaneau smiled.
“Because if you fire a single shot, Sophie’s throat will be opened from ear to
ear.”
Vaneau gestured with his glove.
May you like
“Bring her to Dock Fourteen.”
“And set the penthouse to burn.”
