Chapter 8 - The Siege of the Foretti Estate
"Get down!"
Daniel shoved Elena behind the thick granite island as a volley of suppressed gunfire ripped through the kitchen windows, chewing up the expensive mahogany cabinets and sending porcelain plates exploding into white shrapnel.
The war had finally come to their doorstep.
From the darkened hallway, the four quadruplets and Chloe appeared, scurrying low under Matteo’s frantic hand signals. "To the bunker! Move, move, move!" Matteo hissed, herding his terrified brothers and Chloe toward the secret pantry door with the precision of a seasoned drill sergeant.
Elena caught Marco, the quiet twin, by the arm as he ran past, shoving him safely behind the heavy steel partition before slamming the security bolt home. They were safe in the reinforced vault. Now, she had to make sure Daniel didn't die defending it.
"You have a pistol in the bottom drawer of the wet bar," Elena snapped, ducking low as another burst of glass showered the floor.
Daniel looked down at her in shock, a grim smirk touching his lips even as he thumbed the safety off his Glock. "Since when do you know where I keep my sidearm?"
"Since I had to clean out your liquor cabinet three weeks ago," Elena retorted, snatching a heavy cast-iron skillet off the stovetop with one hand while grabbing a tactical flashlight with the other. "Cover my flank, Foretti. Let's show these bastards what happens when you mess with a mother's kitchen."
Before Daniel could argue, Elena burst out from behind the island, swinging the heavy cast-iron skillet with ferocious, baseball-player precision right into the jaw of the first masked intruder climbing through the shattered French doors. The man dropped like a stone, his weapon clattering harmlessly against the marble floor.
Daniel didn't hesitate. Two rapid gunshots echoed through the cavernous room, neutralizing the second and third attackers who lunged from the shadows of the courtyard.
Within forty-five seconds, the kitchen was dead silent again, save for the patrain outside and the heavy breathing of the two adults standing amidst the wreckage.
Daniel lowered his weapon, his chest heaving. He looked at Elena—standing there with a flour-dusted blazer, wet hair, and a smoking cast-iron skillet in her hand—and burst out laughing. It wasn't the dark, cold chuckle of a crime lord. It was a genuine, booming laugh of pure, unadulterated relief and adoration.
May you like
"Remind me," Daniel murmured, stepping over an unconscious hitman to pull her into his arms, "never to piss you off."
"Just remember to clean up the glass," Elena whispered against his chest, finally letting the adrenaline crash as she buried her face in his shoulder. "I just waxed these floors yesterday."
