Chapter 5 - THE SIEGE OF LAKE GEORGEThe stone lodge sat on a snowy bluff overlooking the icy, black waters of Lake George, surrounded by thick pine forests that swallowed the sound of the approaching storm.
Inside, Salvatore Marcone sat at a mahogany desk, pouring a glass of scotch while three armed guards watched the perimeter monitors on the wall.
“The girl is secure in the nursery upstairs,” one of the guards reported, checking his watch. “The transport chopper should be here in forty minutes to move her across the Canadian border.”
Marcone took a slow sip of his scotch, smiling grimly. “Moretti thinks he can run New York real estate without paying tribute. Let’s see how he builds an empire when his bloodline is scattered to the wind.”
BOOM!
The heavy oak front doors of the lodge exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and fire.
Before Marcone could even reach for the pistol on his desk, flashbang grenades sailed through the shattered doorway, filling the grand room with blinding white light and a deafening, concussive roar that dropped all three guards to their knees.
Through the smoke stepped Gabriel Moretti, holding a suppressed tactical rifle, moving with the cold, unstoppable grace of an executioner. Behind him poured a dozen Moretti operatives, clearing corners, subduing guards, and securing the perimeter in less than thirty seconds.
Marcone stumbled backward, drawing his firearm with a shaking hand, but before he could raise the barrel, a heavy boot slammed into his wrist, sending the gun clattering across the marble floor.
Gabriel stepped down on Marcone’s hand, applying just enough pressure to make the older man scream in agony.
“Where is she?” Gabriel asked softly.
“Upstairs—second door on the left!” Marcone gasped, sweating profusely. “Don't kill me, Gabriel—we can negotiate—!”
Gabriel didn't waste another breath. He turned his back on Marcone, leaving him to Vince, and sprinted up the grand circular staircase two steps at a time.
He reached the second-floor hallway, kicked the second door on the left off its hinges, and stepped inside.
The room was warm, lit by a small nightlight. In the center stood a wooden crib draped in pale pink lace.
Standing beside the crib, frozen in terror, was an older nurse holding a bundle wrapped in a knitted pink blanket.
Footsteps echoed behind Gabriel as Emma rushed into the room, breathless, her coat torn at the shoulder, her eyes wild with a mother’s desperate hope.
She stopped dead in the doorway.
The nurse slowly lowered the bundle, stepping back with her hands raised.
Emma walked forward as if walking on glass. She reached into the crib, her trembling hands slipping beneath the soft cotton blanket. When she lifted the infant into her arms, the baby let out a tiny, high-pitched yawn and stretched her fingers, instinctively searching for warmth.
Emma pressed her face against the baby’s head, inhaling the sweet, unmistakable scent of baby powder, milk, and newborn skin.
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“Grace,” Emma sobbed, her tears soaking into the pink blanket. “Oh, my sweet Grace. I found you.”
Behind them, Gabriel stood in the doorway, watching the mother and child held safely in each other’s arms. For the first time in his life, the cold, heavy armor of the Moretti syndicate fell away, leaving only a man who had finally won the only war that mattered.
