Chapter 6 - The Siege of the East Wing
“Down!” Roman roared, lunging across the room and tackling me to the hardwood floor just as a volley of high-caliber bullets shredded the ancient bookshelves behind us.
Wood splinters and shattered glass rained down upon us like shrapnel. Roman shielded my body with his own, his heavy frame absorbing the impact of falling debris. The estate’s alarm system blared to life—a deep, rhythmic klaxon that shook the foundations of the castle.
“Intruder alert. Perimeter breach at Sector 4,” the automated voice echoed through the estate’s intercoms.
Downstairs, the explosive roar of Declan’s heavy automatic shotgun echoed through the halls, accompanied by the distinct, frantic bursts of Gabriel’s submachine gun.
“Moretti found us,” Roman hissed, pulling a compact tactical radio from his belt. “Declan, report!”
“They breached the sea gate!” Declan’s voice crackled through the static, breathless and furious. “At least twenty men in tactical gear! They’re trying to secure the central staircase to get to the tower!”
“I’m cutting off the elevator power now!” Gabriel chimed in over the comms. “Roman, get Maeve into the safe room behind the study! They brought heavy artillery!”
Roman grabbed my hand, hauling me to my feet. “We move. Now. Stay low and do not let go of my hand.”
Fear surged through my veins like ice water, but the fierce survival instinct that had kept Lily and me alive through years of poverty took over. I didn't cry. I didn't freeze. I clutched my mother’s journal tightly against my chest and nodded. “Lead the way.”
We sprinted down the spiral staircase as explosions shook the ground beneath our boots. The smell of sulfur and smoke began drifting up the stone corridor. When we burst out into the third-floor gallery, the scene was chaos.
Two heavily armed mercenaries in black tactical gear turned the corner, their assault rifles raised toward us.
“Falcone!” one shouted.
Before they could pull their triggers, Roman drew two pistols from his jacket, firing four rapid, pinpoint shots. Both men collapsed instantly. Roman didn't even blink; he grabbed one of their fallen rifles, tossed it over his shoulder, and dragged me toward the reinforced steel double doors of the master safe room.
Suddenly, a massive explosion tore through the grand staircase below, sending a shockwave that threw us both against the wall.
Through the rising black smoke, a tall, impeccably dressed man with silver hair and a cruel, jagged scar across his cheek walked calmly into the foyer below, flanked by half a dozen mercenaries with heavy weapons.
Vincent Moretti.
“Roman!” Vincent’s mocking voice echoed through the ruined foyer. “Come out, boy! Let’s finish what we started fifteen years ago! Hand over Clara’s little brat and the ledger, and I might let your brothers die quickly!”
Declan emerged from behind a shattered marble pillar, his face smeared with soot and blood, leveling his shotgun directly at Vincent. “You’ll leave this house in a body bag, you old bastard!”
“Declan, no!” Gabriel shouted from the mezzanine, laying down suppressive fire as Moretti’s men returned fire, pinning Declan behind the crumbling pillar.
Declan was outnumbered. Gabriel was running out of ammunition.
Roman looked at the safe room door, only ten feet away. He could lock me inside, where six inches of titanium would keep me safe until police or reinforcements arrived. But his brothers would die in the foyer.
I looked into Roman’s eyes and saw the agonizing choice tearing his soul apart.
“Go,” I said firmly, grabbing his arm. “Help your brothers.”
Roman stared at me in shock. “I swore to protect you, Maeve!”
“You protect our family!” I yelled over the deafening gunfire. “All of us! You go down there and take that monster down, or none of us walk out of here alive! I’m Clara’s daughter—I don't hide in closets while my family bleeds!”
A dark, ferocious grin spread across Roman’s face—the true face of the Falcone Don.
“Take this,” Roman said, handing me a sleek semi-automatic pistol from his holster, quickly showing me the safety. “If anything wearing black comes through that door, empty the magazine.”
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“Understood,” I said, racking the slide with a fierce determination I didn't know I possessed.
Roman turned, racked his rifle, and dove over the mezzanine railing into the firefight below.
