Chapter 8 - The Lake Forest Siege
The world spun in a sickening whirl of screeching rubber, shattering tree branches, and the deafening concussions of gunfire.
When the armored Maybach finally slammed to a halt against a thick oak tree at the edge of the forest preserve, the silence that followed lasted only half a second.
Luca was already moving.
He rolled off me, his suit jacket torn, a smear of blood along his hairline from the impact, but his eyes were pure, razor-sharp adrenaline. He reached beneath the passenger seat and pulled out a tactical bag containing two submachine guns and extra magazines.
“Emma, stay down!” he barked.
Up front, Marco kicked open the driver’s side door, returning fire instantly. The rapid, hollow *clack-clack-clack* of assault rifle fire echoed through the pitch-black woods.
“It’s Sal’s loyalists!” Marco yelled over the gunfire. “A clean-up crew! They must have had orders to hit us if the gala went south!”
Bullets spider-webbed the thick reinforced glass of the rear windows, but the armor held. Still, we were trapped in a disabled car off the shoulder of the highway, miles from the estate, with heavily armed men closing in through the trees.
“We can’t stay in the vehicle,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm despite the storm of lead outside. “They have armor-piercing rounds. Eventually, they’ll punch through the engine block and ignite the fuel.”
He reached across the seat, grabbing my face in both hands. His thumbs were warm against my cold, terror-stricken skin.
“Can you run, Emma?”
“My ankle—”
“I don't care about the pain,” he said, his dark eyes boring into mine with ferocious intensity. “Can you run fifty yards to the drainage culvert behind those trees?”
I looked at the darkness outside, where muzzle flashes lit up the forest like strobes. My ankle was screaming inside the brace, but I saw the fire in Luca’s eyes. He wasn't going to let us die here.
“Yes,” I gasped. “I can run.”
“On my mark,” Luca commanded.
He kicked the rear door open with terrifying force. The heavy steel door swung wide, acting as a shield against the incoming spray of bullets. Luca leaned around the frame and unleashed a deafening burst of fire toward the oncoming headlights of the SUVs.
Two enemy shooters dropped into the brush.
“Now! Go!” Luca roared.
I lunged out of the car, hitting the wet, muddy embankment on my good foot. Agony flared through my left ankle the moment the brace struck the uneven earth, but the adrenaline flooded my veins, drowning out the pain.
I ran.
Branches whipped across my face, tearing at the green silk gown. The mud pulled at my shoes, but I kept my eyes fixed on the concrete lip of the drainage ditch fifty yards ahead.
Behind me, the sound of battle was deafening. Luca and Marco were laying down a wall of suppressing fire, advancing backward through the trees, drawing the enemy's attention away from my silhouette.
Suddenly, a shadow lunged from behind a pine tree to my right.
A man in a tactical vest, his face covered by a balaclava, raised a shotgun straight at my chest.
“Hold it, bitch—”
He never finished the sentence.
From out of nowhere, a hundred and thirty pounds of black muscle exploded from the darkness behind him.
Bruno.
The Cane Corso had been riding in the chase car that had been trailing us from the Drake. With a terrifying, throat-tearing roar, Bruno slammed into the shooter’s chest, driving the man into the frozen mud with bone-crushing force. The shotgun discharged harmlessly into the tree canopy.
The shooter screamed, wrestling in terror against the dog’s jaws.
“Bruno!” I gasped, tumbling over the edge of the concrete culvert, landing hard on the wet gravel below.
Before another attacker could flank us, Luca slid down the embankment into the ditch beside me. He didn't pause; he dropped the empty magazine from his weapon, slapped a fresh one in with the heel of his palm, and fired a three-round burst over the concrete lip.
The woods fell suddenly, completely silent.
Save for the heavy panting of Bruno, who trotted over to the ditch, his muzzle spattered with mud and rain, nudging my shoulder with his broad head.
“Good boy,” Luca breathed, keeping his weapon trained on the tree line.
From the distance, the wail of sirens echoed—dozens of them, approaching fast from the south. The state troopers and Luca’s secondary security convoy had arrived.
Marco slid down into the ditch next to us, holding a bleeding left arm, but grinning through the grime. “Perimeter’s clear, boss. Backup just boxed in their second vehicle. They’re running for the treeline.”
Luca lowered his weapon.
The immediate danger had passed, but the air in the ditch was thick with smoke, cordite, and raw, feral energy.
Luca turned to me.
In the dim moonlight, he saw the mud covering the silk gown, the tears in the fabric, and the pale, trembling look on my face. Without a word, he dropped his weapon into the mud, reached out, and pulled me violently against his chest.
I buried my face in his neck, my hands clutching his soaked shirt, my entire body shaking with violent, uncontrollable sobs.
“You’re safe,” Luca murmured against my hair, his arms locking around me like bands of steel. “I have you. I have you, Emma.”
He lifted my chin with blood-stained fingers, forcing me to look at him. His face was inches from mine, his dark eyes blazing with an unholy, terrifying possessiveness that completely obliterated the distance between us.
“No more hiding,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a rare, raw emotion. “No more back rooms. No more lies.”
He leaned down and kissed me.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hard, desperate, and fierce, tasting of rain, iron, and fire. The shock of it tore through my entire system, melting every fear, every reservation, every piece of sensible logic I had left.
I kissed him back, my fingers digging into his hair, anchoring myself to the only man in Chicago who could bring down an empire just to keep me safe.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the freezing night air.
May you like
“You’re coming back to the estate,” he said, not as a command, but as a vow. “And tomorrow, Chicago will know who you are.”
***
