Chapter 4 - The Strike in the Storm
The victory at the gala was short-lived.
By Thursday night, three days after Senator Sterling and Victoria were taken into federal custody, a ferocious winter blizzard slammed into Northern Illinois. Eighteen inches of snow blanketed the grounds of the Moretti Estate, blowing off Lake Michigan in terrifying, ninety-mile-an-hour gusts that knocked down power lines across Lake County.
Inside the estate, the main power failed at ten o'clock.
The emergency generators kicked in instantly, casting a dim, amber glow through the long hallways, but the storm’s howling winds drowned out the external audio sensors.
Evelyn stood in the ground-floor medical bay, helping Rosa double-check her emergency oxygen tanks.
“The wind sounds like a freight train,” Evelyn murmured, looking at the ice-coated windows.
“Lake Michigan in December,” Rosa said calmly, sipping warm tea. “It destroys things that aren't anchored properly.”
Suddenly, a dull, heavy THUD echoed from the east wing of the estate—followed immediately by the sharp, terrifying crack of suppressed gunfire.
Evelyn stiffened, her heart leaping into her throat.
The emergency amber lights flickered and died completely, plunging the medical bay into pitch-black darkness.
“Evelyn!” Rosa gasped in the dark.
“I’m right here, Rosa,” Evelyn whispered frantically, reaching out and grabbing the old woman’s hand. “Stay low behind the bed.”
Before Evelyn could move toward the door, the medical bay door slammed open.
A tactical flashlight beam cut through the darkness, blinding Evelyn. Behind the light stood a heavy-set man in dark body armor, holding a silenced submachine gun. On his shoulder was the tattoo of a coiled viper—the mark of Sergio Marcone’s elite mercenary unit.
“Well, well,” the mercenary grunted, raising his weapon. “The old lady and the maid. Marcone said if we couldn't take Moretti, we take what he loves.”
Evelyn’s mind went blank with terror, but her mother’s voice rang in her head: Character is who you are when the world falls apart.
Without a second thought, Evelyn grabbed the heavy, steel oxygen cylinder resting beside Rosa’s bed and swung it with all her strength.
The heavy steel tank smashed directly into the mercenary’s knee.
The man roared in pain, his leg buckling outward with a sickening snap. His gun discharged harmlessly into the ceiling as he collapsed to his bad knee.
Evelyn didn't hesitate. She grabbed a heavy glass water pitcher from the bedside table and shattered it across the side of his helmet, knocking him cold. He slumped face-down onto the carpet.
Evelyn dropped the broken pitcher handle, her breathing coming in wild, ragged gasps. Her hands were shaking violently.
“Evelyn!” a voice roared from the hallway.
Dante burst into the room.
He wore a dark tactical vest over his dress shirt, holding a custom silver pistol in his right hand. His face was covered in soot, his dark eyes wide with an unspeakable, terrifying panic.
When his flashlight caught the unconscious mercenary on the floor, and then moved to Evelyn standing over him with a bloody piece of glass, Dante stopped dead.
“Dante!” Evelyn sobbed, the adrenaline suddenly draining from her body as her legs gave out.
Dante dropped his weapon into its holster, crossed the room in two strides, and caught her before she hit the floor.
He pulled her up into his arms, lifting her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her so tightly she could barely breathe. He buried his face in her neck, his broad shoulders shaking with raw, violent relief.
“God... Evelyn... God...” Dante rasped, his voice breaking—a sound Evelyn had never imagined hearing from the feared Don of Chicago. “I thought I was too late... I thought he took you...”
“I’m okay,” Evelyn wept, clinging to his tactical vest, burying her face into his chest. “Rosa is okay. I hit him with the oxygen tank.”
Dante pulled back slightly, looking down at her in absolute awe, a broken, hysterical laugh escaping his lips. “You hit an armed mercenary with an oxygen tank?”
“It was heavy,” Evelyn stammered, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
Rosa peeked out from behind the bed, holding a heavy brass candlestick. “She swung it like a baseball bat, Dante. The girl has terrifying form.”
Dante’s expression turned from shock to a deep, boundless, intoxicating adoration. He cupped Evelyn’s face in his wet, soot-stained hands and brought his lips down onto hers.
The kiss was wild, desperate, and fierce—a collision of relief, passion, and raw survival that burned away the freezing cold of the storm around them. Evelyn kissed him back with everything she had, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, offering him every ounce of warmth in her body.
When Dante finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers, both of them gasping for air.
“I love you, Evelyn Hart,” Dante whispered into the dark room, his dark eyes burning with an absolute, unyielding truth. “I have loved you since the second you broke my window. I will kill Marcone tonight, and then I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to swing an oxygen tank again.”
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Evelyn looked into his eyes, feeling the heavy, steady pulse of his heart against hers, and knew that her safe, quiet world was gone forever—and she never wanted it back.
“I love you too, Dante,” she whispered back. “Now go finish this.”
