Chapter 6 - The Siege on the West Wing
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I turned the heavy deadbolt until it clicked, then dragged a heavy mahogany chest across the hardwood to barricade the wood.
Sophie was shaking uncontrollably, her tiny fingers digging into my apron.
“Miss Hannah, is Cousin Julian going to hurt Daddy?” she cried.
“Nobody is hurting your father, sweetheart,” I said, lifting her and hiding her inside the walk-in wardrobe behind the winter coats.
“Sit right here, cover your ears, and count to one hundred backwards.”
I grabbed a heavy brass fireplace poker from the hearth and stood directly in front of the bedroom door.
Out in the west hallway, the sound of gunfire shattered the nighttime quiet like sudden thunder.
Glass shattered down the corridor as boots pounded against the polished marble stairs.
Silas moved through the shadows of his own estate with lethal precision, following the trail of opened security panels.
Julian Rourke was sweating profusely, clutching a laptop and a black duffle bag as he ran toward the service elevator.
“Julian!” Silas’s voice roared down the hallway, echoing with an authority that stopped the man dead in his tracks.
Julian whipped around, raising a snub-nosed revolver with trembling hands.
“Stay back, Silas! Don't come any closer!” Julian screamed, his voice shrill with panic.
“I built your offshore logistics accounts from nothing, and you treated me like a glorified bookkeeper!”
“You gave Elena millions to build charities, while I had to beg for scrap percentages!”
Silas didn't stop walking; he advanced straight down the barrel of Julian’s gun without a single hesitation.
“You sold Elena to the Castigliones for thirty pieces of silver, Julian.”
“You watched me mourn my wife for three years, and you hugged me at her funeral.”
Julian pulled the trigger.
The bullet ricocheted off the ornate bronze statue behind Silas, showering sparks across the carpet.
Before Julian could cock the hammer again, Silas closed the distance like a panther.
Silas grabbed Julian’s wrist, twisting it sharply until the bone popped with a sickening crunch.
The revolver clattered harmlessly onto the marble floor.
Silas slammed his cousin against the oak wainscoting, his forearm crushing against Julian’s throat.
“Where is Don Castiglione tonight?” Silas growled, his voice a razor against the man’s ear.
Julian choked, his eyes bulging as he fought for oxygen against Silas’s iron arm.
“He’s... he’s waiting at the marina... Pier 44!” Julian gasped out, blood leaking from his split lip.
“He has a freighter loading the stolen crates... Maren was supposed to meet him with the safe combination tonight!”
Silas stared at his cousin for five long seconds, feeling nothing but cold revulsion for the man who shared his blood.
Dominic arrived at a dead sprint, four armed security guards trailing closely behind him with zip-ties.
“Take him to the kennel cages,” Silas ordered, letting Julian slump to the floor like a sack of wet flour.
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“Don't let him sleep, don't give him water, and make sure he’s alive when the federal marshals arrive tomorrow.”
Silas picked up his gun, wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead, and turned back toward the nursery suite.
