Chapter 7 - THE REVOLVER IN THE KITCHEN
Dominic Rossi stepped fully into the kitchen, the silver revolver steady in his hand. He didn't look like a man leading a violent siege; he looked like a wealthy businessman inspecting a property.
“Put the rifle down, little girl,” Dominic said softly, his pale blue eyes locking onto mine. “The safety is still on, and you’re shaking too hard to pull the trigger anyway.”
I glanced down at the heavy weapon in my hands, my vision blurring with panicked tears. He was right. I didn't know how to use it.
Mary stepped in front of me, shielding my body with her own.
“Let her go, Dominic,” Mary said, her voice surprisingly steady, despite the blood on her hands. “She’s just a maid. She has nothing to do with this.”
Dominic chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, Mary. Always playing the martyr. Just like my sister, Elena. You took my niece, you hid her for twenty years, and you thought I would never find out?”
He took a slow step closer, the barrel of the revolver now aimed directly at Mary’s forehead.
“Where is the deed to this estate, Mary?” Dominic demanded, the polite veneer slipping slightly. “If Vanessa marries Moretti, the properties merge. But if Luca dies before the wedding, and Vanessa is the sole inheritor, I want the paperwork ready.”
“You think Vanessa will sign over Luca’s empire to the man who murdered him?” Mary spat, her chin raised in defiance.
“She will if I have a gun to your head,” Dominic smiled cruelly. “Blood is thicker than water, Mary. Even fake blood like yours.”
“You don't understand her at all,” I whispered, gripping the heavy rifle tightly, refusing to drop it. “She doesn't care about the Rossi name. She just wanted to be loved.”
Dominic’s eyes flicked to me, annoyed. “I told you to drop the gun.”
He didn't hesitate. He shifted his aim and fired a single shot.
The bullet struck the stainless-steel refrigerator inches from my head, showering me in sparks and shattered metal. I screamed, dropping the rifle, falling to my knees on the tile floor, covering my ears as the deafening crack echoed through the kitchen.
“The next one goes in her kneecap,” Dominic warned Mary, lowering the smoking gun. “Now, where is the deed?”
Before Mary could answer, the swinging doors to the dining room burst open with incredible violence.
Luca Moretti stood in the doorway, bleeding from a cut above his eye, his suit jacket gone, holding a heavy tactical shotgun.
He didn't issue a warning. He pumped the shotgun and fired instantly.
The blast tore into the kitchen, missing Dominic by a fraction of an inch as the older man dove behind the massive marble island for cover.
“Get down!” Luca roared at us.
Mary grabbed the collar of my coat and pulled me behind the reinforced steel ovens just as Dominic returned fire. Bullets pinged and ricocheted wildly off the metal surfaces, destroying what was left of the kitchen.
“You’re outmatched, Luca!” Dominic yelled from behind the island, his voice echoing over the gunfire. “My men have the upper floors! You have nothing left!”
“I have my house,” Luca growled, racking another shell into the chamber. “And you are trespassing.”
Luca laid down a suppressing fire, shattering the marble countertop above Dominic’s head, pinning him down.
“Mary, get Grace out the servant’s door!” Luca shouted to us. “Run to the SUV! Vanessa is waiting!”
“We’re not leaving you!” Mary yelled back, stubbornly refusing to move.
“Go!” Luca commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “He wants you, Mary! As long as you’re here, you’re leverage!”
Mary knew he was right. She grabbed my hand, pulling me up, and we scrambled toward the heavy metal servant’s door leading out to the driveway.
We burst out into the pouring rain. The cold air hit my lungs like a physical blow.
The armored SUV was still idling in the driveway fifty yards away. But it wasn't safe.
Three of Dominic’s mercenaries were surrounding the vehicle, trying to smash the bulletproof glass with the butts of their rifles to get to Vanessa inside.
“Vanessa!” Mary screamed, sprinting across the wet gravel toward the men, completely unarmed, acting on pure, desperate maternal instinct.
“Mary, no!” I yelled, running after her.
The mercenaries turned, raising their rifles toward the crazy woman in the torn blue coat running at them in the rain.
But before they could fire, the roar of a massive engine drowned out the storm.
A heavy, matte-black tow truck, the kind used for hauling semi-trailers, tore through the shattered front gates of the estate at seventy miles an hour.
It didn't slow down.
The truck slammed directly into the side of the mercenaries' unmarked SUV, crushing it like a tin can and sending the three armed men diving into the mud to avoid being crushed.
The tow truck skidded to a halt on the wet grass, the heavy diesel engine idling aggressively.
The driver’s side door swung open.
A man stepped out into the rain.
He was massive, well over six and a half feet tall, built like a brick wall. He had a thick gray beard, a worn leather jacket, and carried a heavy, sawed-off double-barrel shotgun resting casually over his shoulder.
He looked at the mercenaries scrambling in the mud, then looked at Mary, who was standing frozen in the rain.
“Elena’s sister,” the giant man rumbled, his voice the exact grinding stone sound from the burner phone. He tipped his head slightly in greeting.
He racked both barrels of the shotgun with one massive hand.
“You called in the favor,” he said.
The mercenaries, recovering from the shock, raised their rifles toward the giant man.
“Kill him!” one of them yelled.
The giant didn't flinch. He didn't take cover.
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He just smiled, a terrifying, savage grin in the moonlight, and raised his shotgun.
“Name’s Arthur,” the giant roared over the rain. “And I really hate the Rossi family.”
