Chapter 7 - The Final Stand in the West Wing
The door to the medical wing was blasted off its reinforced hinges, splintered wood and twisted metal littering the hallway floor.
I skidded around the corner, my Berettas raised, scanning the room through a haze of acrid smoke. Two of Salvatore’s heavy enforcers lay motionless on the linoleum floor, blood pooling around their boots.
In the center of the room, standing beside Phillip and Eric’s specialized beds, was Viktor—Salvatore’s primary hitman and a ruthless animal known for leaving no survivors.
And trapped directly in front of him was Angela.
Viktor had one arm locked tightly around Angela’s throat, pressing the jagged edge of a combat knife against her collarbone. Angela’s face was pale, but her eyes weren't filled with fear—they were burning with fierce, unyielding defiance.
“Drop the weapons, Grant!” Viktor roared, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “Drop them right now, or I swear to God I’ll slice her throat from ear to ear!”
I froze in the doorway, my chest heaving, the twin pistols gripped so hard my fingers ached. Every instinct in my body screamed to fire, but the angle was impossible. One twitch, one millimeter off, and the blade would cut deep into Angela.
Behind Viktor, sitting paralyzed in their specialized chairs, Phillip and Eric were staring directly at him. And for the first time in three years, I saw something in their eyes that wasn't blank vacancy or despair.
I saw pure, unadulterated rage.
“Let her go, Viktor,” I said, my voice dropping into a register so dark and lethal it barely sounded human. “This is between you and me. She has nothing to do with this.”
“She’s the one who gave you hope, boss man,” Viktor sneered, pressing the knife slightly deeper into Angela’s skin, drawing a thin bead of crimson blood. “And I’m going to take that hope away right in front of your eyes.”
“Don’t look at me, Andrew!” Angela gasped out, struggling against his iron grip. “Focus on—”
Viktor slammed the pommel of the knife against the side of her head, cutting her off. A sharp cry escaped her lips as she stumbled, nearly losing her footing.
Something inside me snapped. The last remaining barrier of human restraint shattered into dust.
In one fluid, lightning-fast motion, instead of dropping my weapons, I holstered my right pistol, whipped a throwing knife from my tactical boot, and let it fly.
The blade cut through the air with a silent, lethal hiss.
Before Viktor could react, the heavy steel blade buried itself squarely up to the hilt in his right shoulder. A blood-curdling scream tore from his throat. His grip on the knife loosened instantly, and he dropped the blade as he stumbled backward, clutching his mutilated shoulder.
Angela didn't hesitate. With a burst of adrenaline, she drove her elbow backward straight into his stomach, dropping him to his knees.
I didn't give him a second to recover. I closed the distance across the room in two massive strides, grabbed Viktor by the collar of his tactical vest, and threw him headfirst into the reinforced glass observation window, shattering it into a million glittering shards. He slumped unconscious to the floor.
I dropped to my knees beside Angela, catching her as she swayed.
“Are you alright?” I demanded, my hands gently cupping her face, checking the cut on her collarbone where the blood was slowly welling. “Did he hurt you?”
Angela looked up at me, her eyes shining with tears, but a radiant, breathless smile broke across her face.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, reaching up to touch my cheek. “I’m okay.”
Suddenly, a sharp gasp echoed from across the room.
We both froze. I whipped my head around.
Sitting in his specialized chair directly beside us, Phillip was no longer slumped against the restraints. Both of his hands were gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles were stark white. His body was trembling violently with exertion, his legs visibly shaking beneath the blanket.
And then, with a low, ragged breath that sounded like a dam breaking after three long years of silence, Phillip pushed his entire body upward.
He stood.
His legs shook, unstable and trembling under his own weight, but he stood upright, towering over the wheelchair for the first time since the night of the crash.
Beside him, Eric let out a sharp cry, gripping his own armrests and lifting himself up as well. And across the room, Adam let out a clear, distinct sound—a single word, spoken with absolute, miraculous clarity:
"Mom..."
No—not Mom.
He looked directly at Angela.
"...Stay."
The room fell into an absolute, sacred silence. The distant sounds of sirens wailing outside in the Chicago rain faded into nothingness.
May you like
I stood up slowly, looking from my sons—standing on their own two feet for the first time in three agonizing years—to the woman who had refused to let them die in the dark.
Tears finally spilled over my eyelashes, cutting clean tracks through the soot and sweat on my face. I pulled Angela into my arms, holding her tightly against my chest as the storm outside finally began to clear, washing clean the blood and shadows of my dark empire, and leaving behind a dawn we had all fought so hard to reach.
