Chapter 3 - Blood on the MarbleThe hallway was pitch black, save for the rhythmic, amber pulse of the emergency security strobes casting long, jagged shadows across the polished white marble.
I crouched low beside the wainscoting, the heavy cold steel of a Glock 19 gripped tightly in my trembling hands. My bare heel throbbed with every heartbeat, a sharp reminder of the porcelain shard Marcus had pulled from my skin just minutes ago, but the pain was a distant hum compared to the adrenaline roaring in my ears.
Ahead of us, the private loading elevator chimed quietly.
Ding.
The sound echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot.
Marcus stood a few feet ahead of me, flattened against the dark mahogany panels of the wall, his pistol raised and locked. His silhouette was a study in absolute control—no wasted movement, no hesitation, just a predator waiting in the dark.
The heavy steel doors of the elevator slid open.
Three figures stepped out into the hallway, dressed head-to-toe in matte-black tactical gear, their faces hidden behind reinforced balaclavas. In their hands, suppressed submachine guns gleamed dully under the emergency lights.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They moved with the synchronized, brutal efficiency of professional executioners.
The lead operative stepped onto the open marble floor, his weapon scanning the shadows toward the living room.
He didn't check the corner behind the pillar.
Where I was standing.
"Clear," the lead operative whispered into his comm-link, taking another forward step.
I didn't think. I didn't let fear paralyze my limbs. Training from a childhood I had tried desperately to forget kicked in with terrifying precision. I stepped out from behind the pillar, raised my weapon, and fired twice into the center mass of the rear operative before he could swing his barrel toward me.
The silencer gave a dull, heavy thud-thud.
The man buckled instantly, crashing face-first onto the marble floor with a lifeless thud.
The other two operatives whirled around, shouting in Italian, their weapons pivoting toward the sound.
That split second of distraction was all Marcus needed.
Like an apex predator breaking cover, Marcus exploded from the shadows. His first shot took the lead operative square in the chest, spinning him around before he hit the ground. The third man managed to raise his submachine gun, but Marcus closed the distance with blinding speed, slamming the heavy butt of his pistol into the man’s temple with bone-shattering force.
The operative slumped unconscious against the wall, sliding down into a heap of black nylon and blood.
Silence descended on the hallway once more, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of the man who had kept me locked away to save my life.
Marcus lowered his gun, his chest heaving under his damp shirt. He didn't look at the bodies littering the floor; his smoke-gray eyes locked onto me, wide with a mixture of sheer disbelief and burning, protective fury.
"Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?" he demanded, his voice trembling slightly as he crossed the distance between us in two strides.
"I told you," I panted, lowering my own weapon as my hands finally began to shake. "My father wasn't just an accountant, Marcus. He laundered money for the cartels before he tried to cheat them. I grew up cleaning guns on our kitchen table while you were learning how to run a boardroom."
Marcus stared at me for a long, suffocating moment. Then, with a low growl of disbelief, he reached out, grabbed the lapels of my cardigan, and yanked me violently against his chest, crushing my mouth against his in a kiss that had nothing to do with gentleness and everything to do with possession, survival, and a raw, unleashed hunger that had starved for three long years.
It was rough, desperate, and tasted faintly of gunsmoke and copper.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing my body against his, returning every ounce of the fierce, desperate need he was pouring into me. For the first time since our courthouse wedding, there were no walls, no rules, and no secrets.
Just two survivors standing in the ruins of an empire, refusing to let each other go.
When Marcus finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his thumb tracing my lower lip with trembling reverence.
"We can't stay here," he murmured, his voice husky. "If three made it up the private service lift, the whole building is compromised. Alessandro is waiting at the secondary extraction hangar on the roof."
"What about the Morettis?" I asked, looking down at the dead operatives at our feet.
May you like
Marcus’s expression hardened into something terrifyingly absolute.
"The Morettis wanted a war," Marcus said quietly, his hand gripping mine so tightly my fingers ached. "Tonight, they’re going to get one."
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