Chapter 4 - Blood and White Roses
“Marcus,” I muttered, rising to my feet with terrifying calm. The grief and awe I felt for Alina instantly hardened into cold, calculated fury.
“Dante, there are dozens of them,” Viktor panted, drawing his Glock. “They’ve surrounded the east wing. They know you’re in here.”
I turned back to Alina and her mother. My wife was already standing, her tears gone, replaced by a steely resolve that proved she was far stronger than any mob soldier I commanded. She reached behind the heavy velvet drapes and pulled out a suppressed Walther PPK—my spare pistol, which I had hidden there months ago, teaching her how to use it in secret during our late-night target practices.
“You taught me well, Dante,” Alina said calmly, racking the slide with practiced precision. “I’m not hiding anymore.”
A fierce pride swelled in my chest. This was my wife. Not a hostage, not a pawn, but a queen.
“Viktor, secure her mother in the reinforced panic room behind the library,” I ordered, unholstering my twin Berettas. “Alina, stay behind me.”
“No, Dante. We move together,” she countered, stepping shoulder-to-shoulder with me as glass shattered down the hall.
Marcus Vance’s mercenaries stormed the corridor, automatic weapons raised. But they had underestimated the master of the house. Viktor opened fire from cover, dropping the first two assailants before they could adjust their sights.
I stepped out into the hallway, moving with lethal, predatory grace. Bullets chipped the mahogany wainscoting around me, but my focus was absolute. Two quick shots—bang, bang—and the lead gunman dropped, a clean hole between his eyes.
“Boss! They’re breaching the courtyard doors!” a voice crackled over Viktor’s tactical radio.
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“Let them come,” I snarled into the comms. “Burn the traitors out.”
Alina fired with chilling accuracy, covering my blind spot as we advanced down the grand staircase. Every white rose arrangement adorning the banister trembled with the concussive force of gunfire. The contrast of pristine white petals falling amidst the carnage was poetic. This was our home, our fortress, and no traitor would ever take it from us.
