Chapter 4 - The Fire on the Ridge
“Down!” Salvatore roared.
In a fraction of a second, the aristocratic, sorrowful man vanished. In his place rose the apex predator of the Chicago underworld.
His arm whipped around my waist with terrifying strength, yanking me off the velvet chair and throwing his entire broad frame over mine just as three rounds tore through the masonry above our heads, showering our hair with pulverized limestone and shredded glass.
The heavy mahogany dining table flipped onto its side with a crash, creating a temporary barricade between us and the terrace windows.
“Stay flat!” Salvatore commanded, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, military calm that sent a chill down my spine.
He reached beneath his cashmere sweater, pulling a black semi-automatic pistol from a shoulder holster. He didn't look flustered. His pulse, where his forearm pressed against my shoulder, was slow and rhythmic.
Gunfire erupted across the grounds—the sharp, cyclic rattle of submachine guns answering the heavy boom of the estate’s security detail.
From the hallway, the heavy oak doors kicked open. Marco’s older brother, Enzo—Salvatore’s personal head of security—slid into the room on his knees, a tactical rifle raised toward the shattered terrace.
“Sniper team on the northern ridge, Don Salvatore!” Enzo barked, spitting plaster dust from his teeth. “They breached the outer perimeter through the ravine! It’s the Bertinelli crew from New York!”
“The Bertinellis?” Salvatore’s eyes narrowed into slits of lethal gray. “Sal Bertinelli doesn't have the stomach to cross state lines unless someone opened the gate from the inside.”
“We’re boxed in on the driveway,” Enzo reported, firing three controlled bursts through the broken glass into the dark tree line. “We need to move through the wine cellar to the lake tunnel!”
Salvatore looked down at me. I was shaking violently, my hands clutching his navy sweater, my face inches from his chest. The smell of gunsmoke, crushed stone, and his expensive cedarwood cologne filled my lungs.
“Can you run, Lily?” he asked, his voice impossibly gentle amidst the deafening roar of automatic weapons.
“My ankle—”
Before I could finish the sentence, Salvatore scooped me into his arms, lifting my entire weight against his chest as easily as if I were a child.
“Hold on to my neck,” he whispered.
He didn't wait for my agreement. With Enzo providing covering fire, Salvatore moved through the shattered archway, his stride long, powerful, and unyielding. We descended into the bowels of the mansion, down winding stone stairs that smelled of damp earth and aged oak casks, deep beneath the bedrock of Lake Forest.
Behind us, the sound of the mansion being torn apart by gunfire echoed through the stone shafts.
We reached a heavy reinforced steel door forty feet below the ground level. Enzo punched a biometric code into the wall terminal, and the hydraulic locks disengaged with a sharp hiss.
Inside sat an armored subterranean garage, housing an unmarked gray SUV with reinforced run-flat tires and bulletproof plating.
Salvatore set me gently into the passenger seat, his hands framing my face for a brief second to check for injuries. “Are you bleeding?”
“No,” I choked out, tears finally breaking through the adrenaline. “Salvatore... who are these people? Why are they trying to kill you?”
“Because they heard I was becoming sentimental,” Salvatore said coldly, slamming the passenger door shut and jumping into the driver’s seat.
May you like
He rammed the ignition, and the heavy diesel engine roared to life.
“And in my world, Lily, sentimentality is an open invitation for an execution.”
