Chapter 4 - Fire in the Carriage House
The sound of shattering glass from the ground floor echoed up through the open elevator shaft like a gunshot.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded Nora’s veins. She wasn't a mob boss’s daughter; she was a twenty-six-year-old waitress whose biggest daily crisis was usually a customer complaining about cold soup.
“Get down,” Vincent ordered, his hand gripping her shoulder with iron force and pushing her behind the massive marble kitchen island.
“I don't want to die!” Nora hissed, crouching behind the counter, her hands covering her head. “It’s my birthday! I’m supposed to be eating stale birthday cake in my pajamas!”
Vincent drew a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol from a concealed holster beneath his suit jacket with terrifying, practiced ease. He didn't look panicked; he looked like a man in his natural element—cold, calculating, and absolutely lethal.
“Sam, take the eastern staircase,” Vincent commanded, his eyes fixed on the elevator doors. “Hold the landing. Don't let them reach the living area.”
“On it, Boss,” Sam muttered, vanishing down the hall with his weapon drawn.
Heavy boots pounded up the private elevator shaft. The steel doors shuddered under a heavy kinetic strike—a hydraulic battering ram used by tactical teams.
Bang!
The doors buckled inward.
Bang!
The locking mechanism blew apart in a shower of sparks and steel fragments.
Two figures dressed in black tactical gear, wearing night-vision goggles and carrying suppressed submachine guns, poured out of the elevator into the open-plan kitchen.
They didn't hesitate. They raised their weapons toward the living room.
Vincent moved with explosive speed. He vaulted over the kitchen island, firing two rapid shots. The first assailant dropped instantly, his tactical vest absorbing the impact before he crumpled to the hardwood floor.
The second operator swung his barrel toward Vincent.
Nora didn't think. Instinct—raw, desperate, and furious—took over. She grabbed a heavy, solid-marble fruit bowl off the counter and hurled it across the room with every ounce of strength she possessed.
The heavy bowl struck the second operator squarely in the side of his helmet, throwing his aim off just enough for his bullet to shatter a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the river.
Before the man could recover, Vincent closed the distance, slamming the butt of his pistol against the side of the operator’s helmet. The man collapsed like a broken doll.
Silence rushed back into the penthouse, broken only by the whistling wind blowing through the shattered glass window and the distant wail of sirens outside.
Vincent stood over the fallen men, his chest heaving slightly, before turning his gaze slowly toward the kitchen island.
Nora was still crouched behind the counter, shaking from head to toe, her cheap black dress stained with dust and soot.
Vincent walked over, dropped his pistol back into his holster, and extended a large, steady hand down toward her.
“Are you hit?” he asked, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.
Nora looked up at his hand, then slowly placed her trembling fingers in his palm. He hauled her effortlessly to her feet.
“I hate my birthday,” she whispered, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat. “Every year something terrible happens, but getting hunted by tactical mercenaries in a Back Bay penthouse definitely sets a new personal record.”
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Vincent’s mouth twitched into a genuine, albeit grim, smile.
“Happy birthday, Nora.”
