Chapter 4 - Blood on the RocksThe bitter wind whipping off the Atlantic carried the acrid smell of gunpowder over the roar of the surf.
Pinned beneath Matteo’s heavy, muscular frame against the wet gravel, Hazel felt the cold steel of his pistol pressed against his thigh as he scanned the dark tree line with the cold, deadly focus of an apex predator.
“Stay down,” Matteo ordered, his voice dropping into a lethal, commanding growl that left no room for argument.
“My car—”
“Forget the car!”
Another gunshot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off the front fender of Hazel’s sedan with a sharp metallic ping that shattered the driver’s side window into a thousand sparkling diamonds.
Matteo didn't hesitate. He grabbed Hazel by the waist, hoisted her up effortlessly against his chest, and sprinted with terrifying speed toward the heavy stone foundation of the lighthouse, using its massive bulk as cover.
They slammed against the rough granite wall. Hazel was breathing hard, her chest heaving, the adrenaline singing through her veins like liquid fire.
“Vassily,” Hazel panted, clutching Matteo’s arm. “You said he was dead. You said you tracked him down!”
“I found the man who fenced the stolen product,” Matteo corrected, his eyes never leaving the dark tree line fifty yards away. He was reloading his magazine with practiced, lightning-fast precision. “Vassily is the Bratva boss who bought it. He’s been waiting five years for a chance to settle the score after I gutted his Chicago distribution network.”
“And he followed you here?”
“He must have had eyes on Tobias or tracked my private flight manifest out of O’Hare,” Matteo muttered, his jaw clenched. “I brought a war to your doorstep, Hazel. I am so sorry.”
There was no time for apologies. From the shadows of the tree line, three figures dressed head-to-toe in black tactical gear emerged, moving with tactical precision, carbine rifles raised as they fanned out across the open gravel clearing toward the lighthouse.
Matteo stepped in front of Hazel, using his own body as a living shield.
“Get behind the iron access door,” he commanded, shoving his heavy pistol into her hand.
Hazel caught the weapon by instinct, her fingers wrapping around the familiar grip. “I know how to shoot, Matteo. You taught me, remember?”
A dark, grim smile touched the corner of Matteo’s mouth. “God, I love you.”
Before she could answer, Matteo stepped out from behind the stone corner and opened fire.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The silenced pistol coughed three times in rapid succession. The lead Russian operative stumbled, dropped his carbine, and collapsed heavily onto the gravel.
The remaining two shooters immediately dropped prone, returning fire with automatic bursts that chewed up the stone molding of the lighthouse door, sending showers of granite dust raining down over Hazel and Matteo.
“Suppressive fire!” one of the Russians shouted in broken English. “Flank right!”
“Hazel, now!” Matteo yelled, firing another two rounds to keep their heads down.
She didn't hesitate. She threw her weight against the heavy iron access door of the lighthouse. It creaked open just enough for her to slip inside into the dark, echoing spiral staircase.
Matteo backed through the doorway right behind her, slamming the iron barrier shut and throwing the heavy interior deadbolt just as a hail of bullets hammered against the metal exterior.
Inside, it was pitch black save for the rhythmic, sweeping amber flash of the beacon rotating far above them.
“Are you hit?” Matteo demanded, his hands instantly gripping her shoulders, running over her arms and back in the dark, checking for blood.
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” Hazel gasped, leaning against the cold stone wall to catch her breath. “What about you?”
“Nothing.”
He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her dark curls, holding her so tightly she could feel the frantic pounding of his heart against her ribs. For a few seconds, the gunfire outside, the mafia war, and the ghosts of the past vanished, leaving only the fierce, desperate reality that they were alive.
“We can’t stay here,” Hazel whispered, pulling back slightly. “They’ll blow the door.”
“They won't get the chance,” Matteo said. His voice had shifted into something cold, ancient, and terrifyingly efficient—the voice of the Chicago Syndicate boss who ruled an empire of fear.
He tapped his encrypted earpiece twice.
“Tobias.”
“Boss!” Tobias’s voice cracked through the small speaker with urgent static. “We heard the shots. We’re half a mile out. The lead car hit an improvised roadblock—Vassily’s men set an ambush.”
“Clear it,” Matteo ordered, his tone absolute. “Then bring the heavy detail straight to the lighthouse point. Vassily is here. Three operators on foot, automatic weapons. Terminate them all. Leave no one standing.”
“On my way, Boss.”
Matteo clicked off his comms and looked down at Hazel. The amber light of the beacon swept across his face, highlighting the hard line of his jaw and the dark, unyielding intensity in his gray eyes.
“Listen to me, Hazel,” he said, his hands gripping her upper arms firmly. “When my men arrive, they’re going to secure this entire area. I am going to end this war tonight—once and for all. But you are going to get in a secure transport, and you are going back to the bakery.”
“I’m not leaving you here,” Hazel protested.
“You have to,” Matteo insisted softly. “Because as long as I breathe, my enemies will crawl out of the woodwork to try and hurt me through you and Leo. The only way to keep my son safe is for me to finish this bloodline feud tonight.”
Hazel looked up at him, the terrifying reality of his world crashing down around her. This wasn't a romance novel. This was the Chicago underworld, where blood debts were paid in full and enemies didn't stop until one side was buried.
“Promise me,” Hazel whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes. “Promise me you won't die out there.”
Matteo cupped her face in his large, warm hands, leaning down to press his forehead against hers.
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“I spent five years in hell because I lost you, Hazel,” he whispered fiercely against her lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed her—a hard, desperate, punishing kiss that tasted of salt, gunsmoke, and absolute devotion—before turning, drawing a secondary weapon from his ankle holster, and throwing the heavy iron door wide open into the stormy night.
