Chapter 8 - The Mirror Shatters
With a sharp click over the hotel’s multi-million-dollar sound system, the ballroom was suddenly filled with the scratchy, undeniable sound of a live audio recording.
*“The frequency is breaking up. Turn the gain higher, Elena. I can’t hear the safe combinations over the air conditioner.”*
A collective gasp echoed across three hundred guests.
Then came the voice of the woman everyone had known as Vanessa:
*“Don't worry, Marco. The fool suspects nothing. Once he signs the trust documents on Saturday, his ports belong to us. Make sure your mercenaries hit the motorcade on the lower bypass. I don't want Luca surviving the night.”*
Pandemonium erupted in the Grand Ballroom.
Capos leaped to their feet, reaching beneath their tailored jackets. Women gasped, backing away from the tables. Don Carmine and Don Falcone stared at the screen in pure, unadulterated outrage.
“Treason!” Don Falcone roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany table. “Who dared bring this filth into our house?!”
Luca raised his hand, and the room snapped into absolute, terrifying silence once more.
Luca pointed directly up at the mezzanine balcony.
“The man who ordered this treason is standing right above you,” Luca declared, his voice cutting like a broadsword through the room. “Marco Vane!”
Every head in the room whipped upward toward the second pillar.
Marco Vane’s scarred face twisted into a mask of pure, rabid fury. Realizing his entire plot had been exposed, he smashed his scotch glass against the marble railing and drew a suppressed machine pistol from beneath his coat.
“Kill them all!” Marco screamed into his radio collar. “Hit the room now!”
The stained-glass skylights above the ballroom shattered in a deafening rain of crystalline shards.
Ropes dropped through the ceiling as four heavily armed mercenaries in tactical gear descended into the room, assault rifles blazing toward the stage.
Screams tore through the air as panic seized the crowd. Tables were flipped, crystal shattered, and syndicate guards returned fire in a deafening, thunderous roar of gunfire.
Before a single bullet could reach our platform, Luca reacted with blinding speed.
He tackled me to the ground, wrapping his massive, muscular frame completely over mine, shielding my body from the flying glass and ricocheting bullets.
“Stay down, Claire!” he roared over the gunfire.
The heat of his chest against mine, the scent of gunpowder, and the deafening concussions of gunfire filled my senses.
Luca drew a custom matte-black 1911 pistol from his shoulder holster, rolled onto his hip, and fired three double-taps upward.
Two of the descending mercenaries went limp on their ropes, crashing lifelessly onto the empty dance floor below.
From the mezzanine, Marco Vane was sprinting toward the fire escape, firing wildly into the crowd to cover his retreat.
Daniel and four security men engaged the remaining mercenaries near the entrance, cutting them down in a brutal crossfire.
Luca stood up, his eyes blazing with a feral, unstoppable fury.
He looked down at me, checking every inch of my body. “Claire! Are you hit?!”
“I’m fine! Luca, he’s getting away!” I screamed, pointing toward the mezzanine stairs.
Luca pulled me to my feet, his hand gripping mine. “You stay behind Daniel! Daniel, secure the perimeter!”
“I’m not leaving you!” I shouted back, adrenaline overriding every ounce of fear in my blood.
Marco Vane had already kicked open the heavy double doors leading to the kitchen corridors behind the ballroom.
May you like
Luca didn't hesitate. He charged through the smoke and shattered glass, his weapon raised, with me keeping pace right behind him, the small derringer gripped tightly in my clammy palm.
***
