Chapter 6 - THE MIDNIGHT SIEGE
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The smell of burning rubber and cordite drifted down the limestone spiral staircase.
Marco wiped the blood from his forehead with the sleeve of his tactical jacket.
“How many men, Marco?” Antonella asked, her voice remaining remarkably calm.
“Eight or ten,” Marco reported, reloading his magazine with a sharp, practiced click.
“They cut the main power lines to the outer perimeter five minutes ago.”
“The backup generators kicked in, but they rammed an armored pickup truck straight through the wrought-iron gate.”
“Where is Gabriel?” I demanded, clutching Vittorio’s codicil tightly against my ribs.
Marco looked at me, his eyes full of disgust.
“Gabriel’s phone is switched off.”
“I called his private driver three times—he’s at the Romano penthouse downtown, drinking scotch in their private lounge.”
“He set this up,” I whispered, cold fury settling into my bones.
“He knew the estate’s security codes.”
“He gave them the gate clearance so Isabella’s brother could clean out Vittorio’s files before morning!”
“They don't want the files, Claire,” Antonella said, leaning against the damp limestone wall.
“They want me.”
“If I disappear tonight, Gabriel becomes the sole surviving executor by default.”
“The transfer to Romano Development goes through without a single court signature.”
A heavy burst of automatic gunfire erupted directly above our heads.
Plaster and dust sifted down through the ceiling beams, coating our clothes in white powder.
The heavy oak doors of the upper kitchen were being battered with a sledgehammer.
“Marco,” Antonella commanded, stepping out from behind the barrel.
“How many loyal men do we have in the courtyard?”
“Four, Nonna,” Marco answered grimly.
“The rest were sent to guard the Calumet docks on Gabriel’s orders two hours ago.”
“Then Gabriel emptied his own house to leave us defenseless,” I said, looking at the narrow iron staircase.
“Not defenseless,” Antonella countered.
She turned to the open steel safe and pulled out a small, velvet-lined mahogany box.
Inside lay two vintage Colt .45 revolvers with carved mother-of-pearl grips.
They had belonged to Don Vittorio during the Prohibition wars.
Antonella picked up one of the heavy handguns, checked the cylinder with a crisp snap of her wrist, and handed the second weapon to me.
“Do you know how to shoot, Claire?”
I looked at the heavy steel weapon in my hands.
My father had been an avid hunter in northern Michigan before his business collapsed.
I had spent every autumn of my teenage years shooting clay pigeons and target paper.
“Yes,” I said, racking the slide back.
“Good,” Antonella said, a terrifying, beautiful smile touching her withered lips.
“Because tonight, we teach the Romano family what happens when you step into Vittorio Moretti’s cellar.”
Above us, the heavy pantry door gave way with a splintering crash.
Heavy footsteps thudded across the kitchen floor, heading directly toward the spiral staircase.
“Check the wine vaults!” a rough voice barked from above.
“The old woman’s wheelchair isn't upstairs! She’s down below!”
Marco signaled for us to stay low behind the five-hundred-gallon oak barrel.
He raised his tactical rifle, aiming directly at the narrow opening of the stairs.
The first intruder stepped onto the top limestone landing, holding a flashlight and an Uzi submachine gun.
Marco fired two suppressed rounds through the gloom.
The man collapsed forward, tumbling down the stone steps in a heap of limp limbs and clattering metal.
“Ambush!” another voice screamed from above.
A barrage of bullets chewed into the stone archway, ricocheting wildly off the limestone walls and smashing dozens of vintage wine bottles.
Dark red vintage wine poured across the floor like fresh blood, pooling around our boots.
Two more gunmen charged down the stairs, firing blindly into the dark cellar.
Marco engaged the first one, dropping him near the base of the stairs, but a stray bullet caught Marco in his right shoulder.
He stumbled backward with a groan of pain, dropping his rifle into the shattered glass.
The second gunman stepped into the vault, raising his weapon directly at Marco’s chest.
I didn't think.
I didn't hesitate.
I stepped out from behind the oak barrel, raised Vittorio’s Colt with both hands, and squeezed the trigger.
The roar of the .45 in the enclosed cellar was deafening.
The bullet struck the gunman squarely in the chest, hurling him backward against the iron wine racks.
He slid down into the pool of red wine, motionless.
Antonella stepped out beside me, her gun leveled at the top of the stairs.
“Reload, Claire,” she whispered calmly.
“The front door just breached again.”
“More of them?” I asked, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.
Antonella listened to the sound of sirens wailing in the distance, followed by the screeching of heavy tires on the gravel drive.
“No,” she said, her eyes flashing in the candlelight.
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“That is Judge DeLuca’s private federal escort.”
“The law has finally arrived at the Moretti estate.”
