Chapter 5 - The Siege at Midnight
By 11:00 P.M., the storm outside had reached its crescendo. Wind shrieked around the stone gables of the Castiglione estate, driving sheets of freezing rain against the reinforced glass windows.
I sat in the kitchen, sipping a cup of chamomile tea, watching the monitor panel Giani had wired to the dining room table.
Leo stood by the French doors leading out to the back courtyard, his dark suit jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held an automatic pistol in his right hand, casually checking the slide as the security lights along the perimeter flickered and died.
“They’re here,” Leo said without turning around.
On the monitor, the thermal camera feed from the eastern service gate showed three heat signatures slipping through the shadows near the garden wall. Marco must have given them the exact sequence for the manual override before Giani shipped him out.
“Should we call the police?” I asked, standing up.
“The police in Boston don't come out for domestic disputes in North End alleys, Maeve. They certainly don't wander onto private estates during a federal storm,” Leo replied coldly. “This is a family matter.”
The front security alarm didn't ring. Instead, a dull, concussive thud echoed from the heavy oak service door near the pantry.
They were using a hydraulic ram.
“Stay behind the center island,” Leo ordered, not raising his voice.
“I am not hiding under a table, Leo,” I said, stepping across the kitchen tile and reaching into the deep utility drawer beside the industrial sink.
Leo paused, turning to look at me. “What are you doing?”
I pulled out a heavy, eighteen-inch cast-iron skillet—seasoned to perfection, weighing roughly twelve pounds, and capable of cracking a skull like a walnut.
“If someone comes through that pantry door,” I said evenly, testing the grip in my hand, “they’re going to find out why you shouldn't mess with someone who spends twelve hours a day cleaning up after ungrateful mobsters.”
A strange, dark spark flickered in Leo’s gray eyes—something between absolute terror and fierce, unadulterated admiration.
“Remind me never to cross you on laundry day,” he muttered.
CRASH.
The heavy service door burst inward, splintering deadbolts and iron hinges as it slammed against the pantry wall. Three men in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by ski masks and night-vision goggles, swarmed into the dimly lit kitchen with submachine guns raised.
The lead intruder stepped through the doorway, scanning the room for targets.
He didn't see me standing in the shadow of the pantry archway.
As he turned toward the center island where Leo stood waiting with his pistol leveled, I stepped out of the dark and brought the cast-iron skillet down with every ounce of frustration, exhaustion, and pent-up anger I had accumulated over three years of living in their violent world.
The heavy iron connected with the side of the intruder’s helmet with a hollow, deafening CLANG.
The man dropped like a sack of wet cement, his submachine gun clattering across the tile floor.
Before the second intruder could swing his weapon toward me, Leo fired twice—bang, bang—neutralizing the threat with clinical, terrifying precision. The third man dropped his weapon, threw his hands in the air, and hit his knees as Giani stepped through the broken doorway behind him with a shotgun leveled at the intruder's forehead.
The kitchen fell dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the howling wind outside.
May you like
Leo lowered his pistol, exhaling a long, slow breath. He looked down at the unconscious man at my feet, then slowly raised his eyes to meet mine.
“Well,” Leo said, a slow, dangerous smile finally breaking across his face. “I’d say your resume was missing a few key skills, Maeve.”
