Chapter 9 - The Siege of Manchester
The lights inside Blackwood Manor went out with deliberate precision.
This was not a sudden power failure; it was Dominic's protocol. The heavy steel shutters slid down over every window with a low, mechanical hum, sealing the ground floor into an armored vault. Emergency red tactical lights bathed the corridors in an eerie, blood-hued glow.
In the nursery bunker beneath the estate—a reinforced panic room lined with eight inches of ballistic steel—Mrs. Gable and the two pediatric nurses sat holding Leo and Grace. The babies were sound asleep, completely insulated from the violence that was about to unfold three stories above.
I stood in the grand entrance hall beside Dominic.
I had refused to go into the bunker.
"I am Clara Moretti’s daughter," I had told him in the studio, picking up the heavy silver locket and fastening it around my neck. "My mother ran. I won't. If Sal wants to take what my father protected, he will have to look me in the eyes."
Dominic had not argued. Instead, he had handed me a slim, black Glock 19, showing me the safety, the slide, and the magazine with quiet, deadly efficiency.
"Two hands," he had murmured, adjusting my grip. "Center mass. Don't hesitate."
Now, twelve of Dominic’s elite guards stood flanking the marble staircase, assault rifles raised, night-vision goggles resting over their eyes. The hall was silent save for the muffled rhythm of the ocean crashing against the cliffs outside.
*BOOM.*
The heavy reinforced doors of the front entrance shuddered under the impact of a breaching charge.
The lock gave way.
The double mahogany doors were kicked open, splintering into jagged shards of wood.
Four men in tactical vests, their faces hidden behind black balaclavas, swept into the foyer, weapons raised.
"Clear!" the first one shouted in French-accented English.
They never got the chance to clear the second step.
The darkness erupted in a storm of suppressed gunfire. Dominic’s men opened fire from the landing, muzzle flashes lighting up the red-tinted hall in strobe-like bursts. The lead two mercenaries dropped instantly, their armor shredding under the crossfire. The other two scrambled backward, firing wildly into the ceiling, raining plaster and crystal from the shattered chandelier onto the marble floor.
"Fall back! Fall back!" a voice screamed from the portico.
"Push forward," Dominic ordered, his voice ringing over the gunfire with terrifying calm. "Leave none of them alive."
Dominic’s men surged down the stairs, moving in tight, lethal formations, clearing the threshold and pursuing the retreating mercenaries out into the driving rain.
The hall fell silent again, smoke drifting lazily through the ruined doorway.
Then, from the side service entrance near the conservatory, the glass shattered.
I spun around, raising the Glock with both hands, my finger resting lightly against the trigger.
Through the broken French doors stumbled Sal Moretti.
He was alone. His coat was drenched, covered in mud and blood. His left arm hung limp at his side, shattered by a bullet during the outer perimeter breach. But in his right hand, he clutched a heavy .45 revolver, his eyes wild, bloodshot, and burning with the madness of a cornered beast.
He saw me.
He froze, his chest heaving, rain dripping from his graying hair.
"You," he wheezed, his revolver shaking as he raised it toward my chest. "You have Clara's eyes. You look just like the little traitor."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands didn't shake. I kept the iron sights of the Glock lined up directly with his sternum.
"My mother wasn't a traitor, Sal," I said, my voice steady, cutting through the smell of sulfur and rain. "She saw what you were. A butcher who used his family to build an empire of dirt."
"She was mine!" Sal screamed, taking a staggering step forward. "She was my sister! She owed everything to this family! And you... you think you can sit in Russo’s house and take what I built for thirty years?! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill your brats! I’ll take back what’s mine!"
He cocked the hammer of the revolver.
I didn't close my eyes. I didn't pray.
I pulled the trigger.
The recoil snapped through my wrists, the sharp *CRACK* of the shot echoing off the high ceiling.
The round took Sal Moretti directly in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. His revolver flew from his hand, clattering across the marble floor. He crashed to his knees, clutching his shoulder, coughing up dark blood onto the tiles.
Before he could reach for the weapon with his good hand, the shadow of Dominic Russo fell over him.
Dominic walked out of the smoke, his face spattered with rain, his eyes completely black with fury. He kicked Sal's revolver across the room, sending it sliding into the darkness.
He grabbed Sal by the throat with one massive hand, lifting the dying mob boss completely off the floor and slamming him against the granite pillar.
"You dared," Dominic whispered, his voice vibrating with such unholy rage that even the stone seemed to tremble. "You dared enter my house. You dared threaten her children."
"R-Russo..." Sal choked out, his heels kicking uselessly against the stone. "It's... over. The city... won't let you... survive this..."
"The city belongs to Rachel now," Dominic said coldly.
With a brutal, effortless twist of his wrist, a sickening *SNAP* echoed through the entrance hall.
Sal Moretti’s eyes rolled back into his head. His body went completely limp.
Dominic released his grip, letting the body crumple onto the floor like a sack of wet rags.
The silence that followed was total.
Outside, the gunfire had ceased. The storm was finally moving out to sea, leaving behind only the steady, gentle drip of rain from the eaves of the house.
Dominic turned to me.
The terrifying rage that had possessed him vanished instantly as his eyes found mine. He walked toward me, his boots leaving bloody footprints across the marble, stopping just inches away.
He reached out and gently took the Glock from my trembling hands, clicking the safety on and setting it on the ruined credenza.
Then, he pulled me into his arms.
He held me so tightly I could feel the violent hammer of his heart against my ribs. I buried my face into his wet wool coat, the smell of cedar, gunsmoke, and rain filling my lungs. I didn't cry. The tears wouldn't come. There was only the immense, sweeping realization that the war was finally over.
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"It's done, Rachel," Dominic whispered into my hair, his voice rough with emotion. "Sal is gone. Bradley is in federal prison. There is no one left to hurt you. You are free."
***
