Chapter 6 - In the Line of Fire
Screams ripped through the Drake Hotel like wildfire.
The lights went black. Plaster dust and crystal rain crashed onto the ballroom floor in a terrifying cascade of shattering glass. Men in four-thousand-dollar suits threw themselves under banquet tables; women shrieked as their gowns tore on debris, the stampede of four hundred panicked socialites surging toward the revolving doors on Michigan Avenue.
“Down!” Dante roared.
He didn't hesitate. In a single, violent motion, his broad frame slammed into mine, tackling me to the polished parquet floor beneath the heavy mahogany shelter of a marble buffet station.
His body was a complete shield over mine, his chest pressing my face into the crook of his neck, his heavy tuxedo jacket protecting my bare back from the falling glass that sliced through the dark like shrapnel. The scent of his skin—cedar, rain, and clean sweat—was the only real thing in a world that had suddenly turned into an abattoir.
Crack-crack-crack-crack.
Automatic gunfire tore through the arched French doors along the terrace. The heavy velvet curtains caught fire from the muzzle flashes, amber flames licking up the walls, casting frantic, demonic shadows across the smoke-filled room.
“Frank!” Dante barked into his lapel microphone, his voice cutting through the shrieks and gunfire with mechanical, chilling calm.
“Boss! Breached through the lake terrace! Six shooters with suppressed carbines! They’re moving toward your sector!”
“Cut the emergency generators,” Dante commanded, reaching beneath his left armpit and drawing a sleek, matte-black automatic pistol from a concealed shoulder rig. “Leave the hall in total dark. Move the convoy to the service ramp on Walton.”
He looked down at me.
In the flickering orange light of the burning curtains, his gray eyes were ablaze with pure, predatory savagery. He reached up with one hand, his thumb wiping a smudge of white plaster dust from my forehead.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his hands checking my waist, my shoulders, my legs with rapid, professional urgency.
“I’m... I’m okay,” I gasped, my fingers digging desperately into the lapels of his tuxedo. “Dante, who are they?”
“Matteo’s cleaning crew,” he muttered. “They knew we were here. They wanted to take us in the crowd.”
He racked the slide of his pistol with a sharp, metallic clack.
“When I move, you stay behind my left hip. Do not look at the bodies. Do not stop running until you hit the inside of the Suburban. Do you understand me, Adriana?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Good girl.”
Dante lunged upward from the shelter of the table.
Two men in black tactical gear burst through the smoke ten feet away, their weapon lights cutting through the haze.
Dante didn't shout a warning.
Thwump. Thwump.
Two precise, double-tapped rounds from his suppressed pistol dropped the first shooter instantly. Dante pivoted on his heel, using the fallen man's body as a temporary shield, firing three more rounds into the chest of the second gunman before the man could raise his rifle.
The speed was terrifying. It wasn't the clumsy violence of a street thug; it was the cold, surgical efficiency of a man who had been raised in the fire of an underworld war since childhood.
He reached down with his left hand, his fingers locking around my wrist like an iron band, hauling me to my feet.
The hem of my emerald gown was torn, soaked in spilled champagne and gray ash, but I didn't care. I ran.
We tore through the service corridor behind the kitchens, the sound of gunshots echoing behind us like distant thunder. Chefs and dishwashers were huddled under stainless steel prep counters, weeping into their aprons, but Dante didn't break stride.
We burst through the heavy steel double doors onto the Walton Street loading dock into the freezing Chicago rain.
A black armored Cadillac Escalade was already idling at the curb, its rear door kicked open by Frank.
“Get in!” Dante ordered, shoving me into the leather backseat.
Before he could pull himself inside, a rifle shot cracked from the roof of the parking garage across the narrow alley.
A round sparked violently against the reinforced steel doorframe.
Dante grunted—a low, choked sound that barely escaped his throat. His body jerked sideways, his shoulder slamming hard against the interior seat.
“Dante!” I screamed, catching his chest with both hands as he collapsed into the cabin.
Frank threw himself into the driver’s seat, slamming the heavy door shut and throwing the vehicle into reverse. The tires screamed against the wet concrete, the SUV rocketing backward into the street before spinning into traffic with a deafening screech of rubber.
Inside the darkened cabin, Dante was breathing heavily, his head resting against the tinted window.
The rain smeared the city lights across the glass in long streaks of neon red and yellow.
I looked down at my hands.
May you like
My fingers were covered in thick, dark crimson.
The left shoulder of his white dress shirt was turning black with hot, spreading blood.
