Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
Adrian stayed on the floor for three seconds after I released him, looking up at me as if the sky had fallen on his head.
Then, slowly, he rose.
The vulnerability that had shattered him moments ago began to calcify, turning into a desperate, frantic possessiveness.
"I won't sign the papers, Claire," he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand, his jaw tightening into iron. "I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you sleep in a separate bedroom for the next fifty years. I will never let you go. You belong to me."
"I never belonged to you, Adrian," I replied coldly. "I gave myself to you freely. There's a difference. And now, I’m taking myself back."
I turned toward the foyer, pulling my woolen coat tighter around my shoulders.
"Claire, wait!"
Before I could reach the marble archway leading to the front doors, the massive stained-glass windows along the eastern wall of the estate shattered inward with a deafening roar.
Automatic gunfire ripped through the dining room.
Wood splattered off the mahogany table. Crystal from the chandelier rained down in lethal shards, exploding across the parquet floor.
"Get down!" Adrian roared.
In a fraction of a second, the remorseful, broken husband vanished. The apex predator of the Chicago underworld took over.
Adrian tackled me to the ground, his heavy, muscular body covering mine completely as bullets shredded the plaster walls above our heads. He rolled us behind the heavy stone base of the fireplace, shielding my head with his arms.
"Marco!" Adrian barked into his lapel radio. "South lawn perimeter breached! Castiglione hitters! Kill them all!"
Gunfire erupted from the front gardens as Moretti security engaged the hit team outside. Shouts, shattering glass, and the sharp crack of high-caliber rifles turned the peaceful Lake Forest estate into an active war zone.
A spray of bullets tore through the doorframe three feet away.
Adrian grunted—a short, wet sound.
I looked up at his face. His teeth were gritted, his jaw clenched so hard a vein bulged in his temple.
"Adrian?"
"I’m fine," he hissed through his teeth.
He reached beneath his armpit, drawing a black customized 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster. He peeked around the stone mantel, fired three rapid, deafening shots, and the heavy thud of a body hitting the marble floor echoed from the foyer.
Then I saw the dark, crimson stain spreading rapidly across the left shoulder of his white shirt.
"You're hit," I whispered, the smell of copper and cordite filling my lungs.
"It’s a graze," he lied, his breathing turning shallow. He looked down at me, his dark eyes wild with adrenaline and raw, terrifying love. "Listen to me, Claire. There’s a panic room behind the library bookcase. The code is your birthday. You run the second I give you covering fire. You don't look back. Do you understand me?"
"Adrian—"
"Do you understand me?!" he roared, his voice shaking the stone. "My life doesn't matter! Yours does! Move!"
Adrian leaned out from behind the fireplace, firing methodically into the smoke-filled corridor, drawing every ounce of enemy fire toward himself.
"Run!"
I didn't think. Instinct took over. I scrambled across the shattered glass, staying low, sprinting toward the heavy double doors of the library. Behind me, the roar of Adrian’s weapon was relentless, answering the volley of assault rifles until the front foyer fell into a sudden, eerie silence punctuated only by the groans of dying men and the shouts of Marco’s reinforcements securing the grounds.
I stopped at the threshold of the library, my hands shaking violently.
I turned back.
The smoke was clearing in the dining room.
Marco and four heavily armed guards burst through the broken terrace doors, weapons raised.
"Clear! Grounds are secure! Six shooters down!" Marco yelled.
In the center of the ruined dining room, Adrian was leaning heavily against the stone fireplace. His gun dangled from his right hand. His left side was soaked in dark, arterial blood that dripped steadily onto the white marble floor.
He looked across the ruined room, his eyes hazy, searching through the haze of gunsmoke.
When his gaze found me standing in the library doorway, unharmed, a faint, bloody smile touched his lips.
"You're safe," he whispered.
May you like
Then, his knees buckled, and Adrian Moretti collapsed onto the bloody marble floor.
***
