Chapter 7 - The Trapped Vipers
The blast from the shotgun was deafening in the enclosed hallway.
I didn't aim at the heavily armored Russian mercenaries. I knew the buckshot wouldn't penetrate their tactical vests, and I was terrified of hitting Luca in the crossfire.
Instead, I aimed directly up.
I fired both barrels into the massive, two-ton crystal chandelier hanging directly above the Persian rug.
The ceiling exploded in a shower of plaster and sparks. The thick steel cable holding the chandelier snapped with a sound like a cracking whip.
The mercenaries looked up just in time to see thousands of pounds of sharp crystal and jagged iron plummeting toward them.
The crash shook the foundation of the mansion.
Three of the Russians were crushed instantly beneath the wreckage. The remaining two were thrown backward by the impact, stunned and bleeding from the flying shrapnel.
I dropped the empty shotgun, my shoulder screaming in agony from the brutal recoil.
“Luca!” I screamed, sprinting out from the hidden service door.
Luca looked up, his dark eyes wide with utter shock. “Hannah? What the hell are you doing up here?!”
I slid across the blood-slicked marble and grabbed him by his suit jacket, hauling him backward. “Saving your life! Can you walk?”
“No,” he grunted, his teeth gritted in pain as he looked down at his shattered thigh.
Marco, bleeding heavily from his shoulder, managed to crawl over to us. He grabbed Luca’s other arm, and together, we dragged the mafia boss back into the dark safety of the servant corridor just as the remaining two Russians recovered and began firing blindly into the dust.
I slammed the hidden door shut and locked the heavy deadbolt. Bullets thudded uselessly against the reinforced wall.
“You crazy girl,” Marco gasped, sliding down the wall, clutching his bleeding arm. “You just dropped a million-dollar chandelier on a hit squad.”
Luca leaned his head back against the wall, breathing heavily. He looked at me, a mixture of awe and terrifying anger in his eyes.
“I told you to stay in the panic room,” Luca rasped, reaching out to grip my wrist tight enough to bruise. “If they had shot you—”
“If they had shot you, I’d be trapped in a box waiting to die anyway,” I fired back, tears of adrenaline finally spilling down my cheeks. “I wasn't going to let them kill you.”
Luca stared at me. The harsh lines of his face softened, and for a fraction of a second, he looked at me not as a maid, but as an equal.
“We have a problem,” Marco interrupted, coughing weakly. “The Russians are stalled, but they still control the front of the house. And the police aren't coming. Carlo Bellini paid off the local precinct to ignore any calls from this zip code tonight.”
“We don't need the police,” Luca said grimly, ripping his tie off to create a tourniquet for his leg. “We just need to get to the wine cellar.”
“The cellar?” I asked, confused. “Why?”
“Because Vanessa is down there,” Luca said, pulling the knot tight with a grunt of pain. “And Vanessa is the one who brought the Russians in. The Bratva won't leave without her. She’s their key to claiming my territory legitimately through marriage. If we hold her, we hold all the cards.”
We moved slowly through the servant corridors. I supported most of Luca’s weight, his arm draped heavily over my shoulders. He smelled of gunpowder, blood, and expensive cologne.
When we finally reached the heavy oak door of the wine cellar, Marco kicked the lock mechanism. It was still engaged.
“She’s still in there,” Marco breathed in relief.
Luca pulled a heavy brass key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
He pushed it open, raising his spare pistol.
The cellar was dimly lit, rows of expensive vintage wine stretching into the shadows.
“Vanessa!” Luca barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “It’s over! Your hit squad is dead. Come out!”
No answer.
We stepped cautiously into the room.
I looked toward the back corner, where they had tied her to a heavy oak chair.
The chair was empty.
The heavy zip ties had been melted through. A small, butane chef’s torch lay discarded on the stone floor.
Vanessa was gone.
“How did she get a torch?” Marco swore, kicking the empty chair.
“She didn't,” a cold, cruel voice echoed from the shadows behind us. “I gave it to her.”
We spun around.
Standing in the doorway, blocking our only exit, was Carlo Bellini.
The elderly mafia boss was holding a suppressed pistol, aimed directly at Luca’s chest.
“Carlo,” Luca said, his voice deadly calm despite his bleeding leg. “Your daughter tried to murder my mother. She sold us all out to the Russians.”
“I know,” Carlo said, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and rage. “But she is my daughter, Luca. And I will not let you torture her in this cellar.”
“Where is she?” Luca demanded.
“I let her out the service door,” Carlo confessed, tears shining in his old eyes. “She’s running for the docks. The Russians will extract her via speedboat.”
“She’s going to come back and slaughter your family too, Carlo!” Marco yelled. “She doesn't care about you! She only cares about power!”
“She’s my blood!” Carlo roared, his finger tightening on the trigger. “And I’m going to make sure you never hunt her down, Luca.”
He raised the gun, aiming right between Luca’s eyes.
I didn't think. I didn't scream.
I stepped directly in front of Luca, shielding his body with mine, closing my eyes, and waiting for the bullet.
A gunshot rang out.
But I didn't feel any pain.
I heard a heavy thud.
I opened my eyes.
Carlo Bellini was lying on the stone floor, a massive pool of blood spreading from a bullet wound in his chest.
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Standing behind him, holding a smoking revolver, was Teresa Moretti.
And standing right beside her, teeth bared in a fierce snarl, was Bruno.
