Chapter 8 - Fire and Blood
The world erupted into chaos in a matter of seconds.
Gunfire rattled through the lower levels of the mansion—sharp, deafening, and relentless. Shouts echoed up the grand staircases, followed by the heavy thud of running boots and breaking furniture.
"Get down!" Dante snarled, grabbing my arm and yanking me behind a thick marble pillar in the hallway as a stray bullet punched through the wall paneling near my head, showering us in white drywall dust.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My lungs seized up. The sterile, beautiful estate had transformed into a war zone in the blink of an eye.
"Are you hit?" Dante demanded, his hands gripping my shoulders, his eyes scanning every inch of my body with frantic urgency.
"No! No, I'm okay," I gasped, clutching his forearm for dear life. "Leo—the baby—"
"The nanny has him in the subterranean vault. They’re safe," Dante said, his voice hard as iron, though a muscle feathered violently along his jaw. He pulled his slide back, checking the chamber of his weapon with practiced, deadly efficiency. "Stay behind this pillar. Do not move an inch, Alina. If anyone comes up these stairs who isn't Salvatore or me, you put a bullet in them. Understand?"
Before I could answer, he pressed a heavy, compact pistol directly into my trembling hand, wrapping my fingers around the grip. His touch was burning hot against my freezing skin.
Then, Dante stepped out from behind the pillar, moving with terrifying, silent speed toward the head of the grand staircase.
I pressed my back hard against the marble pillar, holding the heavy gun with both shaking hands, peering around the edge.
Down in the grand foyer, two men in tactical black gear wearing skull balaclavas were advancing past the shattered double doors, automatic weapons raised. They were Moretti soldiers—mercenaries hired to wipe out the Rosselli bloodline once and for all.
Dante didn't yell a warning. He didn't hesitate.
Bang. Bang.
Two precise, deafening shots echoed through the foyer. Both mercenaries dropped instantly, collapsing onto the Persian rug.
More figures swarmed through the shattered entryway, returning fire. Bullets chewed into the mahogany banisters and shattered the crystal chandelier, raining glittering shards of glass across the marble floor. Dante moved with supernatural agility, using the grand architectural pillars as cover, returning fire with lethal precision. He was a machine of calculated vengeance, protecting his home, his blood, and his empire.
Suddenly, a heavy footstep sounded behind me in the East Wing hallway.
I whipped around, my heart leaping into my throat.
A third mercenary had managed to flank us, slipping up the service stairs. He raised his assault rifle, his eyes locking onto me with cold, sadistic triumph.
"Well, look what we found," the man sneered, taking aim. "The dead girl."
Panic paralyzed my limbs for a fraction of a second. The gun in my hand felt impossibly heavy.
Then my mother’s voice echoed in my head—not with fear this time, but with the fierce, surviving instinct of a woman who had run for twenty-four years.
You are a Rosselli.
I didn't think. I raised the Glock, pulled the trigger, and fired.
The recoil slammed into my shoulder with bone-rattling force. The deafening blast echoed through the hallway.
The mercenary gasped, stumbling backward as the bullet caught him in the shoulder, dropping his rifle with a clatter before he collapsed against the wall.
Before he could recover, Salvatore materialized from the shadows behind him, bringing the heavy butt of his tactical shotgun down squarely across the intruder's skull, sending him crashing unconscious to the floor.
Salvatore looked down at the fallen man, then turned his sharp gaze to me, noting the smoking gun in my trembling hands and the absolute resolve in my eyes.
"Impressive shot, Miss Alina," Salvatore said coolly.
"Is it clear?" I breathed, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I lowered the weapon.
"The perimeter breach has been neutralized," a deep, gravelly voice echoed behind us.
I spun around. Dante was walking down the hallway toward us, his shirt sleeves stained with gunpowder and a shallow graze bleeding slowly along his forearm. His hazel-gold eyes locked onto mine, burning with a mix of fierce pride and terrifying possessiveness.
He stopped right in front of me, ignoring the blood, ignoring the wreckage around us, and gently reached out, taking the heavy gun from my shaking fingers.
"I told you to stay behind cover," Dante murmured, his voice dangerously soft as he pulled me into the shelter of his chest.
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"I’m not a piece of porcelain, Dante," I whispered against his shoulder, finally letting the adrenaline crash into overwhelming relief. "I'm a Rosselli."
Dante buried his face in my hair, his arms tightening around me with a desperate, crushing strength that proved he would burn the entire city of Boston to ash before ever letting anyone hurt me again.
