Chapter 7 - THE TICKING OF THE CLOCK
The heavy oak doors of the study splintered, groaning under the force of the two massive men.
Inside the dark room, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the tall windows, Silvio thrashed wildly. He slashed the combat knife blindly, tearing through the sleeve of Dante’s custom suit.
Dante didn’t flinch.
He caught Silvio’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it with a sickening crack. The knife clattered to the hardwood floor.
With a brutal, precise strike, Dante drove his knee into Silvio’s chest, sending the traitor crashing against the heavy mahogany desk. Silvio collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, blood pouring from his shattered nose.
Dante stood over him, breathing heavily. He picked up the combat knife, weighing it in his hand, the cold steel gleaming in the moonlight.
“For Matteo,” Dante whispered, his voice vibrating with five years of repressed grief and fury.
He raised the knife.
Silvio coughed, spitting blood onto the rug. He looked up at Dante, a twisted, macabre smile stretching across his scarred face.
“Kill me, Dante,” Silvio wheezed. “But if you do, the little girl dies with me.”
Dante froze. The knife halted inches from Silvio’s chest. “What did you say?”
Silvio laughed, a wet, rattling sound. “You think I didn’t have a backup plan? You think I walked into this house tonight relying only on Bianca’s stupidity?”
Dante grabbed Silvio by the lapels, hauling him halfway off the floor. “What did you do?”
“I knew the Commission would ask questions if Arthur Sterling assassinated you,” Silvio rasped, grinning through the blood. “So I brought an insurance policy. A quiet one.”
Silvio tapped his own temple.
“The microphone, Dante. The one Bianca used to humiliate the maid.”
Dante’s blood ran cold.
He remembered the microphone resting on the dining table. He remembered the faint squeal of feedback when Bianca had turned it on.
“It’s not just a microphone,” Silvio whispered. “The base is packed with C4. It’s on a remote timer. And I triggered it the moment your men stormed the room.”
Dante dropped Silvio. He didn’t care about revenge anymore. He didn’t care about the mafia, or the betrayals, or the Commission.
He only cared about Lucy.
Dante sprinted out of the study, his heart hammering against his ribs in sheer terror.
“Get out!” Dante roared as he burst back into the grand foyer. “Everyone, get out of the house!”
The loyal guards, who were busy zip-tying the traitors, looked up in confusion.
“Bomb!” Dante yelled, pointing toward the dining room. “Clear the area!”
Panic erupted again. The guards grabbed the prisoners and dragged them violently toward the front doors. Arthur Sterling was hauled away, weeping.
Dante sprinted toward the dining room.
The smoke from the fireplace hung thick in the air. Overturned chairs and shattered glass littered the floor.
And kneeling behind the heavy oak serving buffet, clutching Lucy tightly in her arms, was Grace.
She looked up as Dante ran into the room.
“D-Dante?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Dante didn’t speak. He heard it.
A faint, rapid clicking sound.
It was coming from the center of the room, near the engagement cake. The wireless microphone was resting exactly where Dante had left it, a tiny red LED light blinking furiously on its base.
They had less than ten seconds.
Dante dove behind the buffet. He didn’t try to run them out of the room; they would never make it to the doors in time.
Instead, he grabbed the heavy, solid oak dining table that had been flipped on its side during the brawl. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he dragged it over them, creating a reinforced wooden shield.
He pulled Grace and Lucy beneath his massive frame, covering them completely with his own body.
“Hold onto me,” Dante commanded, burying his face into Grace’s neck, his arms wrapping entirely around the two people he suddenly realized were the most important things in his life.
Grace squeezed her eyes shut, pulling Lucy flush against her chest.
Click. Click. Click.
The explosion tore through the Romano mansion with deafening fury.
The concussive wave shattered every crystal chandelier in the dining room, sending a million shards of glass raining down like lethal confetti. The heavy plaster ceiling cracked, dust and debris billowing into the air in a thick, choking cloud.
The shockwave hit the overturned oak table, cracking the thick wood, but the dense furniture absorbed the deadly shrapnel.
Dante grunted in pain as a heavy piece of plaster struck his back, but he didn’t loosen his grip. He held on, acting as a human vault for the woman and child beneath him.
The sound faded into a ringing silence, replaced only by the crackle of small, secondary fires and the distant wail of police sirens.
Slowly, Dante lifted his head.
The dining room was obliterated. The walls were scorched, the windows blown entirely out into the garden.
But they were alive.
Dante pushed the broken oak table off them with a groan. He sat up, his suit covered in white dust, a cut bleeding above his eyebrow.
He looked down quickly.
“Lucy?” he choked out.
The little girl uncurled from Grace’s arms, coughing on the dust. She looked up at him, her face streaked with tears and soot, but completely unharmed.
“Daddy,” she whimpered, reaching up.
Dante pulled her into his chest, burying his face in her hair. He closed his eyes, a profound wave of relief washing over him.
Then, he looked at Grace.
The young maid was sitting on the rubble, her white apron torn and stained, her hands shaking. She looked absolutely exhausted, battered by a night of unimaginable terror.
But as she looked back at Dante, she didn’t look like a frightened servant anymore.
She looked like a survivor.
May you like
Dante reached out, his large, tattooed hand gently wiping a streak of ash from Grace’s cheek.
“You’re safe,” Dante whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve got you.”
