Chapter 6 - The Shadows on the Wall
A heavy iron brick had been hurled straight through my front bay window, scattering shards of glass across the floral rug.
Before I could scream, the front door rattled violently under the impact of a heavy boot.
“Emma!” Mrs. Moretti gasped, struggling to push herself up from the armchair, her face pale in the dim light.
“Stay down!” I hissed, dropping the receiver and sprinting to the living room.
I grabbed Mrs. Moretti by the arm, pulling her off the chair and down behind the kitchen counter just as the front door burst open with a sickening splintering of wood.
Two men dressed in black tactical jackets stepped across the threshold, their boots crunching on the broken glass. Both held suppressed pistols, their muzzles raised, sweeping the small room with professional, lethal efficiency.
Behind them stepped Vanessa.
She had thrown an oversized black trench coat over her torn red evening gown. Her hair was pulled back into a messy knot, her eyes wild, hollow, and burning with a toxic mixture of cocaine and desperation. In her gloved right hand, she held a compact silver revolver.
“Come out, little maid!” Vanessa called out, her voice dripping with venomous mockery. “You wanted to play the hero tonight, didn't you? You wanted to put on your little show with your disgusting peasant soup!”
Mrs. Moretti’s breath hitched. I clamped my hand gently over her mouth, shaking my head violently. We were trapped. The back kitchen door was bolted from the inside, but to reach it, we would have to step directly into their line of sight.
“Where is the old woman?” Vanessa demanded, her voice echoing off my modest wallpapered walls. “Find her! Carlo’s plane is waiting on the tarmac, but we need the mother! Luca won't dare scramble his interceptors if we have his precious mommy in the backseat!”
The two men moved forward, one heading toward the upstairs hallway while the other walked slowly toward the kitchen.
Every second felt like an eternity. My gaze darted around the kitchen counter. No guns. No weapons. Just a heavy wooden butcher’s block with my father’s old carbon steel carving knife resting beside a bowl of fresh lemons.
The heavy footsteps drew closer. Three feet. Two feet. The shadow of the gunman stretched across the linoleum floor, his weapon pointed low.
I didn't think. Instinct took over.
I grabbed the cast-iron skillet sitting on the stovetop, still greasy from the bacon I had cooked that morning, spun on my heels, and swung it with all the force in my body.
CLANG!
The heavy iron slammed directly into the side of the gunman’s jaw. He grunted, stumbling sideways, his pistol firing a silent thwump that dug a bullet into the refrigerator door. Before he could recover, I lunged forward, slamming the skillet down across his wrist. The gun clattered across the linoleum, spinning right to Mrs. Moretti’s feet.
“Bitch!” Vanessa shrieked from the hallway, raising her silver revolver.
She aimed straight at my chest.
I froze, staring down the black bore of the barrel. Time stopped. I saw Vanessa’s finger tighten on the trigger, her manicured face twisting into a triumphant sneer.
BANG!
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space, but it didn't come from Vanessa’s gun.
A red burst blossomed on the chest of the second gunman who had been rushing down the stairs. He collapsed backward, tumbling down the steps in a limp heap.
Through the shattered front window, a dark figure vaulted into the room with terrifying speed and precision.
It was Luca.
He didn't hesitate. Before Vanessa could swing her weapon toward him, Luca closed the distance in two predatory strides. He seized her wrist, twisting it upward with brutal leverage. The silver revolver flew from her grip, clattering against the wall.
With his other hand, Luca slammed Vanessa against the hallway wall, his fingers wrapping firmly around her throat, lifting her heels two inches off the hardwood floor.
Vanessa gasped for air, clawing desperately at his massive hands, her eyes bulging in sheer terror as she stared into the face of the devil she had tried to cross.
“You touched my mother,” Luca whispered, his voice vibrating with a monstrous, inhuman stillness. “You broke into this girl's home. You brought guns into my city.”
“L-Luca... please...” Vanessa choked out, tears of genuine agony finally streaming down her cheeks. “Carlo... Carlo made me do it... he said he’d kill my father...”
“Your father is already dead, Vanessa,” Luca said coldly.
Vanessa’s eyes flared with shock.
“He tried to shoot his way out of the docks twenty minutes ago,” Luca murmured, leaning close to her ear. “Marco put two rounds through his heart. Your family is finished. Your empire is ashes. And you are going to spend the rest of your miserable life in a cell beneath the river where no one will ever hear you scream.”
He dropped her unceremoniously to the floor. Vanessa collapsed in a heap, sobbing hysterically, clutching her bruised neck.
Outside, the neighborhood was suddenly flooded with the sound of screeching tires and heavy doors slamming. Ten heavily armed men in black suits swarmed into the house, led by Marco, securing the perimeter and zip-tying the unconscious gunman in the kitchen.
Luca turned away from Vanessa as if she were a piece of rotting garbage.
His eyes found me, huddled over his mother on the kitchen floor, still clutching the iron skillet, my knuckles white and trembling.
He crossed the room, stepping over the shattered glass, and dropped to one knee before us. He reached out, his large, warm hand gently wrapping over mine, peeling my fingers away from the heavy pan until it fell safely to the floor.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice shaking with a tenderness that completely contrasted the monster he had been seconds ago.
“I'm... I'm okay,” I whispered, my body beginning to shake violently as the adrenaline crashed. “Your mother... is she alright?”
Mrs. Moretti reached up, patting Luca’s cheek with a trembling hand, then looked at me.
“This girl has a wicked swing with a frying pan, son,” the old woman said, offering a weak, trembling smile. “You’d better not ever make her angry.”
Luca looked at the cast-iron skillet, then looked back into my eyes. For the first time, a genuine, breathtaking smile broke across his rugged features.
“I wouldn't dare,” Luca said softly.
Then his phone buzzed again. He answered it, listening for three seconds before his face darkened once more.
“What is it?” I asked, dread creeping back in.
May you like
Luca stood up, pocketing the phone.
“Carlo’s plane just took off from Gary,” he said grimly. “He has the ledgers. And he’s heading straight for New York.”
