Chapter 5 - Blood in the Hallway
The front window of the Beacon Hill brownstone exploded inward in a shower of glittering shards.
“Get down!” Alessandro roared, his reflexes kicking in with terrifying speed.
He tackled me to the hardwood floor, shielding my body with his own as a volley of silenced pistol fire shredded the drywall above our heads. Plaster dust rained down on us like gray snow.
“Mateo!” Alessandro shouted toward the open doorway, his voice slicing through the chaos.
From the hallway came the sharp, distinct crack of return fire—a Glock answering an MP5. Shouts, heavy boots scrambling up the stairs, and the frantic smell of burnt gunpowder filled the air in a matter of seconds.
I buried my face against Alessandro’s chest, my ears ringing, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst through my ribs. This was his world. This was the reality behind the silk suits, the expensive wine, and the private dinners. Death didn't knock politely; it kicked the door down when you least expected it.
“Look at me, Emma,” Alessandro commanded, his hand cupping the back of my head, holding me still. His face was inches from mine, completely calm despite the gunfight raging outside the living room door. “Are you hit?”
“N-no,” I stammered, coughing on the dust. “I’m okay.”
“Stay under this table,” he ordered, shoving me gently beneath the heavy mahogany desk near the bookshelf. “Do not move. No matter what you hear.”
Before I could grab his sleeve, he rolled away, drawing a sleek, suppressed Sig Sauer from a concealed holster beneath his arm. He moved with lethal grace, melting into the shadows of the hallway just as the gunfire outside abruptly stopped, replaced by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
“Clear,” Mateo’s voice called out hoarsely from the foyer.
I crawled out from beneath the desk, my hands trembling as I brushed glass fragments from my knees. I crept out into the hallway.
Two men in black tactical gear—men wearing the silver serpent tattoo of the Chicago syndicate on their wrists—lay motionless on the Persian runner. Mateo stood over them, sliding his pistol back into his shoulder rig, while Alessandro wiped a smear of blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief.
“They tracked us here faster than expected,” Mateo muttered, kicking the side of one of the dead assassins. “Don Luciano’s cleanup crew. They must have followed you from the cemetery, boss.”
Alessandro’s face was a mask of cold, unmitigated fury. He looked down at the dead men on the floor, then turned his gaze slowly toward me standing in the doorway.
“Pack a bag,” Alessandro said quietly.
“Pack a bag?” I repeated, my voice rising in disbelief. “Alessandro, someone just tried to assassinate us in my living room! We can’t just pack a bag and go on a road trip!”
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“We aren't going on a road trip,” Alessandro replied, his voice dropping into a tone that brooked zero argument. “We’re leaving Boston. Tonight. My private airstrip in Maine is cleared. We’re taking the fight to Chicago.”
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