Chapter 4 - Blood in the Rose GardenThe estate’s emergency lighting flickered to life, bathing the opulent hallways in an eerie, pulsing red glow.
Alarms wailed through the ventilation shafts, cutting through the silence of the night like a siren. Gabriel dragged me down the private corridor toward the reinforced panic room behind his study, his grip on my wrist iron-clad and unyielding.
“Vance! Status!” Gabriel roared into the comm-link clipped to his collar.
“It’s the Moretti syndicate, boss!” Vance’s voice barked back over the static, punctuated by the deafening crack of automatic gunfire echoing from the courtyard below. “They used an EMP charge to fry our external cameras! They breached the southern gate with an armored truck—they’re hitting the west wing command center directly!”
My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I thought it would burst. The Moretti family—Gabriel’s bloodliest, most vicious rivals in the interstate drug and arms trade—had chosen their moment. With the Costa syndicate momentarily destabilized by Dante’s internal betrayal, they thought the king was weak. They had come to finish the job.
Gabriel pushed me inside the open steel vault of the panic room, shoving a heavy tactical vest into my hands.
“Put this on. Keep your head down. Do not open this door for anyone except me or Vance,” Gabriel ordered, his eyes blazing with lethal intent.
“Gabriel, wait—!” I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, panic overriding my fear. “You’re still recovering from the poisoning! Your strength isn't back to one hundred percent—you can't go out there against a full strike team!”
Gabriel looked down at me, a fierce, dark grin touching his lips—the look of a man who was born in the crossfire and baptized in blood.
“Harper,” he said softly, gently prying my fingers off his sleeve. “They think I’m dying. It’s time I remind them who owns this city.”
He slammed the massive steel door shut. The hydraulic locks hissed into place with a definitive, bone-chilling clank, plunging me into the amber-lit security vault.
Hours—or what felt like agonizing centuries—ticked by in total isolation.
Through the wall-mounted surveillance monitors, I watched the war unfold across the estate. The Moretti mercenaries swarmed the manicured lawns, dressed in tactical black gear, trading heavy automatic fire with Gabriel’s loyal guards. Glass shattered across the conservatory; smoke billowed from the west wing balconies; tracer rounds streaked across the night sky like falling stars.
And right at the center of the chaos moved Gabriel Costa.
Moving with lethal, terrifying efficiency, he picked off the enemy infiltrators one by one, utilizing every shadow, every stone pillar, and every tactical advantage of the estate he had built. He didn't look like a recovering poison victim; he looked like an avenging angel of death.
Then, on monitor three, my blood ran ice cold.
Two Moretti mercenaries had bypassed the courtyard defense and breached the primary residential corridor—heading straight for the private elevator shaft that led directly down to the panic room level.
They knew where the vault was. Someone inside the estate had sold us out.
Without thinking, I dropped the tactical vest, scanned the panic room’s interior security console, and found the manual override latch. If I stayed locked inside, they would eventually blow the vault door with thermite charges. If I went out there, I was walking straight into the crossfire.
I popped the manual release. The heavy steel door swung open with a soft hiss.
I grabbed a heavy, brass-plated decorative fireplace poker from the corner of the hallway and crept out into the dimly lit, smoke-filled corridor, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The sound of heavy combat boots echoed up the marble staircase just around the bend.
Closer.
Closer.
A masked mercenary rounded the corner, his assault rifle raised, scanning the hallway. He spotted me instantly, his eyes widening behind his tactical visor as he swung the barrel of his gun toward my chest.
I didn't hesitate. I channeled every ounce of survival instinct I had learned in the brutal streets of my childhood, lunging forward with a desperate, guttural cry, and swung the heavy brass poker with all my might.
It caught him squarely across the side of his helmet with a deafening clang. He staggered backward, stunned, stumbling over his own boots and crashing hard against the marble floor, his weapon skittering away across the tiles.
Before he could recover, a second pair of heavy footsteps rounded the corner.
I whirled around, raising the poker—only to freeze.
It wasn't a Moretti mercenary.
It was Vance, holding a smoking submachine gun, his face streaked with soot and blood. He stared down at the unconscious mercenary on the floor, then up at me, blinking in utter astonishment.
“Well,” Vance muttered, lowering his weapon slightly. “Remind me never to piss you off, Miss Lane.”
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“Vance—where’s Gabriel?” I demanded, my voice shaking as I dropped the improvised weapon.
“Securing the courtyard,” Vance said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the main staircase. “The Moretti strike team has been neutralized. But the boss took a bullet to his left shoulder about ten minutes ago. He’s bleeding, and he’s looking for you.”
